The Genius Next Door
by Keung Liu
Summary: Francis was once happy, before he went and had an affair and contracted HIV. From there on a series of unfortunate events follows — like that of his failing health and of the disquieting images that haunt him and of Arthur's bitter distrust. In order for the two to learn forgiveness, they must return back to the start — Marseille, where the genius next door first learned of love.
1. Chapter One

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 3700 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** How it all began.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

"Where have you been?"

Francis jumped in the spot, wincing as the sudden movement sent a jolt of stifling pain down his back. Rubbing the sore area with some resignation, he looked up at the Brit, who was leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed. The green eyes of his partner glittered strangely in the dark.

"I thought you were sleeping," responded the Frenchman in a low voice — it was all he could think of to say. He spared the clock across the room a passing glance. 3:13 AM and too early in the morning for him to have to deal with something like this, but he prepared himself mentally nonetheless with a curious sort of enthusiasm.

"I _was_. But I woke up a little while ago. I needed a cup of tea, and then I realized that you _still _hadn't come back yet. So I camped out here waiting. Where have you been?"

Ah. How could one appropriately answer this question?

Francis let out a sigh and removed his jacket, hanging it up on one of the hooks near the door. He took his sweet time loosening his (already loose) tie and then stepped past Arthur into the living room, where he heard the other shift to move from his post near the kitchen to follow him.

"Only you could wake up in the middle of the night just for a cup of tea," muttered Francis, almost ruefully. He attempted to quench the small smile that was tugging on the corners of his lips and thanked the stars that his back was to Arthur.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, _chou. _I was out with _cher _Antoine. It shouldn't come as much of a surprise to you."

Francis turned around, about to say more, but was stopped short by the look on the Brit's face. It didn't hold the expression of anger or feebly concealed vexation that would have usually manifested itself into apparency by now as Francis had expected; rather, it was one of overwhelming weariness.

Arthur wasn't even looking at Francis — he was entirely too concentrated on the television next to himself, holding his left elbow with his right hand in a cautious manner, lips pinched together in the vulnerable way that let Francis know that he felt entirely lost.

Francis followed Arthur's gaze, where he saw, past a coat of dust on the TV screen, two foolish old men reflected. They stood there awkwardly with a distance that hung between them like their silence, near enough to be considered acquaintances but too far to be considered anything more so.

He turned to fiddle with one of the only lamps in the room. It flickered once, twice, before reluctantly turning on.

The lamp's dreary orange hue didn't provide much of a difference in the still-dark room. It did, however, prove effective in casting elongated shadows across the wall behind them and in deepening the prominences around Arthur's eyes from an obvious lack of sleep (and the hollows in his cheeks from an obvious lack of adequate nourishment). The images in the television vanished as quickly as they had come, and with nothing left to look at Arthur finally turned his eyes to Francis.

Francis returned the solemn stare, not really seeing. He remembered that he had once fallen in love with those eyes, though.

"I called Antonio and he said that you weren't with him," said Arthur.

"Ah, so it wasn't just the cup of tea," Francis said, relishing the way the Brit flinched.

They'd been married now for two years, six months, and fourteen days. Francis remembered grass greens and kind-of-endearing bushy eyebrows for only two years, four months, and eight days.

The remaining had been spent like this, sneaking around and lying and avoiding phone calls.

He didn't know why he had continued the once 'one-night-stand', or why he was planning to continue it still. It was entirely too obvious by this point that there was something incredibly wrong with him as he basked in the glow of his partner's obvious confusion, watching as the lamp light flickered, as the shadows on his cheeks danced.

This was his moment — this was why his nights of adultery were committed —

If Arthur wasn't able to figure out what had been going on behind his back by now, he was as stupid as the Frenchman had always called him out to be.

(And perhaps it was better this way, for Francis' secret to be spread out in front of them where neither could manipulate it any longer. Perhaps it would be better for them both.)

He prepared himself mentally for the incoming argument, but instead what came next surprised both himself and the speaker.

"I'm going to bed."

Francis blinked.

And only then, like a quick douse of cold water, did he realize suddenly that he may have made a dire mistake.

"Wait, Arthur —" he implored.

Arthur had always been _chou _or _cher _or _lapin_. Or _sourcils_.

The Brit spun on the spot with a turn of his heels, the back of his hand covering the lower half of his face, his heartbreakingly beautiful eyes betraying to the Frenchman a fleeting look of unconditional pain just before squeezing shut.

He took to the master bedroom, shoulders shaking, and disappeared behind the door right as Francis found the resolve to move his legs — but by then it was too late.

The door shut in his face with a _bang_.

* * *

Once, long ago, on the banks of the Seine River, a Frenchman had fallen in love with an Englishman and vice versa. Or something like that.

They'd been college students, both of them, freshmen with a high school diploma in one hand and a bunch of disorganized dreams in another, one from Marseille and one from London.

And then they had met each other, had clumsily wooed, and had laid themselves out underneath the aether and had stretched themselves out underneath the vigilant eyes of the stars. They'd gone on extended walks along the river and had met often upon a certain bridge and Francis had whispered _Le Pont Mirabeau _in Arthur's ear and Arthur had swatted him away telling him s_top that, you git, you know how much I hate your bloody language_ with a smile on his face.

He'd probably thought that it was some romantic poem of serenation or sorts (because he couldn't speak French all that well) when really it was just the only poem Francis knew that had to do appropriately with the Seine.

It was about the pain of remaining fastened, by love, to a singular location despite the inevitability of passing time.

_(Sometimes, Francis thinks that maybe he had somehow jinxed their relationship by reciting it.)_

They hadn't even meant to get together. Francis was an exotic Parisian who came from a decent home, who liked spending his time bantering with gorgeous women. He was vain and selfish but he loved and loved freely and that was all that could be said about him, really. Arthur was a British immigrant who had an atrocious French accent and liked tea and embroidery and couldn't hold his liquor. Oh, and he was a diligent student, with not a lot of friends, but polite and gentlemanly to all.

They weren't all that much alike, so of course it came as a bit of a surprise to the others (by the others meaning the rest of the school who had come to know the name of the hardworking Englishman and flirtatious not-so-hardworking Frenchman) when they started to date and an even bigger surprise when the two stayed together, especially considering Francis' very _promiscuous _reputation.

It will never last, they said.

That was okay. What others said, that is. Because neither of the two students really gave a rat's ass about what others said.

Three years came and passed and they were married happily in the Netherlands since neither France nor England allowed for gay marriage but whatever because screw the system, they were going to do it anyway even if returning to France meant that their marriage wouldn't be legally recognized (nor would they have access to any of the benefits being married brought) because it was the principal of the thing.

And so.

It was a first for both of them. Not the marriage (well, yes, that too), but —

It was a first for Arthur because Francis was the first boy (or human being) that he had ever dated, kissed, _or _fell in love with.

It was a first for Francis because Arthur was the first boy (or human being) that he had ever loved so much that he could go for weeks at a time without sparing another human being a single glance.

It was _especially _a first for Francis because, as mentioned, he had probably gone out with six hundred different ladies in his lifetime and three hundred different men and he had been fine with that because he _liked _it that way, thank you very much.

And he had thought that that was the way it was going to be forever — but somehow, somehow, he had found himself being drawn towards that single, angry little Brit.

He could have had _anyone. _But he chose the Brit.

And he wouldn't regret it, not for a long time.

One beautiful day in the Netherlands, two college boys with some scattered dreams promised themselves to each other. _I'll never leave you_. _I'll love you forever. Sickness, health, wealth, poverty, yeah, yeah, yeah! I do. I do, I do, I do._

Or something like that.

* * *

Francis doesn't remember how the affair started or why he had decided to go through with it, but he remembers _why. Why _had always been there like a little light at the back of his head; it first festered from a single stray thought and then it had mutated and multiplied thereon.

He remembered drinking, too. He supposed it had started more or less with Gilbert Beilschmidt, six months ago at _L'Éther Rouge_. It was one of the few times he had gone to a bar simply because he was _bored _and not because he was looking for any enjoyment or attention with his best friends from women.

"I feel like I should be reciting poetry," Francis had groaned, voice fuzzy and tired-sounding. "Verlaine's _Il pleure dans mon coeur_. I bet it's because Arthur and I have been arguing more lately. I do not even know what I am doing wrong, but one of these days _Les_ _Sourcils _is going to snap at me and I am going to snap right back because I will have had enough. And then I will walk straight out of the house, never to return, and he will be sorry."

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" slurred Gilbert, because he too has had just as much to drink as Francis and he was starting to see doubles of his blond friend. He hiccuped. "Man, Franny, I bet it's because you're not getting it on as much."

Francis bristled at the pet name but decided to let it go this once. "What do you mean?"

"You're not getting any action from Arthur."

The Frenchman looked outraged and somewhat offended. "We do it _quite _often, thank you very much," he protested. "This has _nothing _to do with our sex life."

"Sure it doesn't," Gilbert grinned. "Well — ah — (hiccup) — I mean, sure it _does_. Maybe you're finally cracking because you're just so used to being with several people at once and now that you're stuck with Arthur you've finally realized after some two years of suffering that you are literally _stuck with Arthur_, forever. I mean, think about it. Even when you were dating the guy, you snuck around behind his back a couple times just to get away from it all, remember? I don't blame you — the eyebrows, _man! _— but now, it's like, you _can't _anymore."

"That had been back when we weren't having sex," sniffed Francis. "That's a completely different issue. I'm not upset because of _that, _cher. I just — I don't know, Dieu. _Ce deuil est sans raison._"

Gilbert just grinned and stumbled off his seat, swinging his beer-wielding arm quite unintentionally so that the contents within the glass spilled all over Francis' new shirt.

It would be later, whilst wringing out said shirt in the comforts of the one-bedroom flat he shared with Arthur, that Francis recalled this conversation. No matter what he had said against Gilbert's words, he couldn't get the taunting out of his head. Later, Francis would even start to _believe _those words (spouted from inebriation) to the point where he thought them wise.

Was his and Arthur's relationship losing its touch?

Whether from a lack of sex or not, nobody could deny that yes, yes it was. The hype from being newly-weds had long ago died down and the two had settled into a comfortable routine of domesticity (familiar, yes, but –) that included going to work and returning home late and paying the bills and spending maybe an hour together watching the news (all the while bickering) and then heading straight for bed. Rinse, lather, repeat —

Mundane, tedious, lackluster. He had married _Arthur_, not any other household spouse that could be easily picked off the streets or in the woods.

And, ah, who was Francis kidding – of course there was still sex, and it was fabulous, but sometimes _more than one night would pass without him getting _any, mostly due to the two of them being so worn-down by everything else that was going on in their lives at the time. Moments in which the other partner was not a part of.

Gilbert was indisputably, incontrovertibly, and indubitably correct.

_Dieu, _he had to do something.

* * *

A week went by (since the night Arthur caught Francis out) without incidence, which in itself brought the image of something very, very _wrong_.

Neither Francis nor Arthur saw the other all that often, and this frustrated the Frenchman to no end because even before the affair they could sparsely find free time for each other. The Brit woke early every morning to leave for work (a horrible little place, in Francis' opinion — a rundown newspaper company, one of the only English ones between here and the Channel) and then would claim himself too tired after returning home to make conversation. Sometimes he would just sit in the kitchen with his hands folded in his lap, a listless look in his eyes. Sometimes he would kick off his shoes, tug off his shoulder bag, and head straight for bed.

For each of the seven days that had passed Francis would urge himself to sit down beside his husband and make him listen, let him explain, but he would always chicken out at the last possible moment. The voice inside him was saying, _If you let this silence continue on for much longer, your relationship will dissipate, _and he knew it was right, shit, but he wouldn't know what to say even if he tried.

* * *

These were the thoughts that plagued Francis' mind:

He and Arthur bickered. That was their _thing — _they argued like an elderly couple.

Sometimes, one of them would take it too far and their bickering would escalate into a real argument. It wasn't uncommon — they hurt each other and they did it often — and sometimes their windows would rattle from the force of their voices, escalating in sound and bitterness as the comebacks became more hurt-filled and hurtful.

So Francis wondered when Arthur would finally snap, because he hadn't yet, but he normally would have by now and this was strange behaviour on his part, because —

Arthur knew about the affair.

He _must _know about the affair by now.

Why hadn't he said anything yet?

Were they just to continue this sidestepping forever, were they to pretend that what Francis had done hadn't been at all?

The unusual quietness disturbed the Frenchman much more than any hoarse shouting ever could, because maybe this was how his husband was like when he was _truly _upset. Francis had never meant to do that, not at all, because —

He knew that he had gone too far.

He regretted the time he had spent with Chel so badly that it hurt like crazy, and he wanted desperately to make it up to the man that was slowly slipping away from him.

But they weren't communicating with each other (even though Arthur _knew _the importance of proper communication because he was a damn _journalist_ so why wasn't he yelling at Francis the way he deserved?) except through some unspoken accords, such as the one that let Francis know that he was no longer welcome in the bedroom.

He instead started to sleep on the couch. It was a second-hand piece of crap because they were not the wealthiest of couples so the springs creaked every time he moved. He was a light sleeper, he'd hardly get three or four good hours a night, so he took instead to thinking during his wake about —

How this had all started.

* * *

Here was how it had all started:

They had something of an abusive relationship.

Francis couldn't remember the last time he felt insecure about somebody leaving him or dumping him because it was always _him _doing the leaving, yet he _must _be insecure and this insecurity _must _have grown from a lack of marital excitement, because what else could justify his unjustifiable actions?

Why else would he have feigned terrible migraines for almost half a year, why else would he have flirted with all those girls at the bar even when his husband was there with him?

He had somehow, somewhere along the way after his and Gilbert's talk, made a startling discovery — that these negative actions attracted attention, and that he enjoyed the attention so much more than he could ever enjoy the standard regulars of married life.

If he pretended he was sick, Arthur would stay home from work to make sure he was alright — if he flirted more, Arthur would become jealous and cling to Francis tighter than necessary.

If he acted bored with his and Arthur's sex life, Arthur would be sure to catch on and heat things up a little bit. If he started to hang out more at local pubs with Gilbert and Antoine, Arthur would be sure to try harder to guarantee that Francis still loved him more than the thighs of scantily-clad women. If he pushed himself away, the Brit would pull him back.

If he started to act sketchy, avoid calls, have an _affair — _well, he would have all the attention he'd ever need, ever care for, and even if it wasn't the positive kind it wouldn't matter because at least he'd have it.

It was a fool-proof plan. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Because everything he had done up till now was for _Arthur_. Arthur, in all his hairy-browed glory and his homely/ugly (debatable) hand-knitted sweater vests and his adorable British accent (that made him sound like a hopeless tourist, because he insisted on speaking English with Francis and everyone else even though they lived in _France_).

He craved his attention the way beggars on the streets craved for spare change; he starved for it the way mutts on the streets starved for scraps of leftover food. It was Arthur. It had always been Arthur.

But now he had ruined everything.

* * *

On the third day of the second week, Francis was crying himself to sleep alone on the couch.

He made sure to stifle any noises he made with a press of the blankets to the lips. He couldn't do for Arthur to find out, because the worst case scenario which Francis feared more than anything else now was that Arthur would take one look at him and simply walk away.

He also avoided Chel like the plague, all her incessant texts and calls, and at one point when Arthur was at work sometime at night he so violently hated her that he dropped his cell phone from their balcony on the top floor, heart rising in giddy triumph as he watched it fall.

Dropped, not threw, because he could not let his anger get the better of him.

And just as he saw the electronic shatter into a million pieces – just as he had the sudden vision of him and his husband being a real couple again and reassembling the remains of their marriage as though that phone had been the only thing standing between them both – he felt a sudden wave of hot nausea course through his veins.

He straightened his back quickly and sprinted to the bathroom.

Francis was throwing up in the toilet before he knew it, trembling white hands gripping the edge of the porcelain seat – again and again and again, first to picturing Arthur's face and then to his brother Mattieu's and how disappointed he will be when Francis tells him that he's gotten a divorce.

As he peered into the bowl, brushing away his slick hair from his clammy face, he realized that most of the content that he had thrown up was not last night's dinner.

"Oh —" he started, before he staggered forwards to retch again, as if his weak system felt the relentless need to empty itself completely of both the food in his stomach _and _the blood in his lungs.

When he finished, he leaned back, panting.

Arthur was going to leave him, he despaired.

(Perhaps pretending to be sick had become a habitual response to him, psychologically, because for some reason or other Francis soon found himself leaning over the toilet bowl every other night. He began to use up all his sick days so that he could stay home and nurse himself from his rapidly climbing fever, and he attributed said sickness to his depression. Francis would never otherwise miss a single day of his work, which he adored — working as a model for a French clothing store. That, of course, must be it.)


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Assume Francis speaks French with everyone but Arthur and Gilbert.

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4480 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** The beginning of the descent.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

They were falling apart and if Francis didn't talk to Arthur _now, _the damage done would become irreparable. Instead, he found himself on Antonio's doorstep with a small suitcase in one hand.

He'd been switching between Antonio and Gilbert and Feliciano's houses for the past week, and he had not seen Arthur since. He neither wanted Arthur to know of his declining health nor did he want to be living in the face of the stalemate that was his and Arthur's love life, which would be almost as worse as acknowledging said stalemate openly.

"Just speak with him, _amigo_," encouraged Antonio, who still possessed one of the only three smiles in the world that could cheer Francis up under any and all circumstances, after having opened his front door to the miserable man standing outside.

"You don't understand," sighed the blond. "It's more complicated than that. Can I stay over again tonight?"

"Of course. You know you are always welcome to." And with that, Antonio offered his hand in a strange display of affection, which Francis took gingerly. The Spaniard then pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug.

He whispered fiercely in the other's ear, "Whatever it is, Francis, I have confidence that you will find the right path! After all, you are the _most _talented when it comes to the matters and affairs of love. If anyone can do it, you can."

Trouble was, Francis didn't _feel _like the professional at romance anymore. He felt very much like he did the first time he'd ever been young and in love – lost, confused, and helpless.

"He knows about the affair," said Francis in a quiet voice, and he felt Antonio's back stiffen against him – because besides Arthur, Antonio and Gilbert were the only ones who knew about Chel. But Francis had never told them about what happened _after _Chel, despite their pleadings.

"Are – are you positive?" asked Antonio, face white as he pulled away and held Francis by his shoulders.

"I think so," said the Frenchman. "Dieu, he knows, but it's been three weeks since he's known and he hasn't spoken a word to me since. Perhaps he's in denial –"

"You're an idiot," cried Antonio, "A horrible, horrible idiot, Francis –"

"I know, I know –"

"You need to fix things, now!"

"I know!" Francis wailed, wringing his hands. "And on top of cheating itself, I'm a coward who can't even face his own husband after all that's gone down, instead choosing to hide behind his friends' backs. I shouldn't have stayed silent, I should have chased after him the moment he found out, because I _love _him. I know that, I _goddamn _know all that –"

Poor Antonio, best friends with a man who gets into more trouble than he was worth. Once again he pulled the blond in for another hug, feeling utterly powerless, because he was Antonio and he was never one for knowing what to say and when to say it.

"You're not a coward," he said firmly. "You're not a coward, Francis."

"Don't lie," pleaded the Frenchman. "Not to me."

"Okay, you're a bit of a coward," confessed Antonio without shame, and Francis almost laughed at his blunt forwardness as he dabbed the corners of his wet eyes with a bit of sleeve. "But you still have time to change – to make up with Arthur."

And Francis looked straight at Antonio and for the first time felt a glimmer of hope bloom in his chest.

"Promise me you'll try talking to Arthur tomorrow –" Antonio continued, seeing how Francis was beginning to latch on to his every word, "– promise you'll tell him how sorry you are, how you'll make it up to him if only he'll take you back. I have tons of tips for you if you'd like, I have experience –"

But apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because with that Francis promptly lurched forwards and made this awful gagging noise and the next thing Antonio knew, the back of his neck felt _very_ wet and warm. As did the back of his shirt.

Francis looked horrified with himself. "Antonio –"

Antonio only laughed, though he also made a face and detached himself from Francis. "No matter, amigo."

"I can't believe this_ —_" wailed the Frenchman, who understood the importance of beautiful and delicate fashion.

Antonio smiled, interrupting him. "It is only a shirt, Francis."

The moment was broken, and the wisp of hope in Francis disappeared along with the food he had attempted to force down earlier that morning from that stupid French pastry store he had always loved.

* * *

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," answered the blond, though a little shakily, as he wiped the bile from the corners of his lips. "Nothing to it – just thoughts of Arthur, I think. Guilty conscience. If we talk about him too much it'll be sure to happen again."

Antonio looked as though he was about to say more, opening and closing his mouth like a flabbergasted fish. He ran a hand through his delightfully curly hair and then chuckled. "Are you sure you're not sick? Maybe you have a fever? You look kind of pale."

Francis shook his head and tried to duck, but Antonio's hand was already clamped over his forehead. The forward movement brought their noses an inch away from each other. The Spaniard made a humming noise and tapped his chin with a single finger.

"Would you like some tomato juice?"

Francis gave Antonio a strange look, but was glad when the other disengaged himself.

"Is it supposed to help with fevers?" he asked, mildly confused.

"Nah, you don't have one," called the other, already halfway inside the house, and with some relief Francis followed him. "It's good for sadness, though."

(Francis was unable to keep his eyes off the smattering of blood on the back of Antonio's shirt as they walked to the front door, blood that the Spaniard would not notice until much, much later as he goes to do his laundry. The blood, Francis noted wryly, much overcame the amount of food he had thrown up this time.)

Though Francis would spend the rest of the day eagerly learning about all the thousand-and-one ways one could apologize to his partner (and generally trying to forget about the partner to whom he was going to apologize to very soon), enjoying the time spent with his long-time best friend (as well as with Gilbert, who showed up later in the evening), and drinking the disgusting cocktails made from tomato juice, he could not, however, get rid of that weird feeling in his gut that something was amiss and it wasn't just from the absence of pastries.

* * *

In a terrible twist of events on the way back to his flat, Francis broke and made a U-turn just a street away from their destination despite Gilbert's frustrated sigh. Arthur would not be returning home for another hour, and Francis couldn't bear the thought of having to face the empty apartment alone (or so he told himself). And his German tag-along didn't count.

Down the Parisian streets he went, hands in his lightly padded coat. Everything reminded him of Arthur – the roar of cars as they thundered by and the sounds their wheels made against the hard, wet asphalt, the flashing of lights against the darkening sky, the rolls of detailed clouds against the ocher horizon – for Paris had become over the years as much his home as it had Arthur's and they'd seen it all together.

From across the street the sound of children's laughter rang, and Francis found himself unwillingly walking towards the noise. He leaned against the black gate that led into the park where they played and rested his cheek against the cold metal bars.

He wondered what Arthur was doing now. He envisioned a pair of glasses perched on the end of the Briton's nose and he thought of pursed lips and the glow of artificial light from an office computer and what it'd be like to drop by at the company building just to say hello. Maybe he'd fall asleep in Arthur's giant swivel chair with his head in his arms on the table, maybe he'd wake up right at the end of the day so that the two could walk home together. Maybe he'd manage to point out this exact sunset he was now witnessing – and smooth his thumbs over the dimples in Arthur's cheeks and lean over to steal a single kiss.

"You know, if you can't help yourself, there's nothing me and Tony can do for you," said Gilbert softly as he came up from behind Francis.

"This is all your fault," whispered the Frenchman, voice almost lost in his silk scarf.

"Hey, man, you're the one who had the affair."

Francis spun around, eyes blazing. "You —" he hissed, pointing an accusing finger, "You were the one who put ideas in my head!"

"What ideas?"

"Ideas — ideas of —" He threw his hands up before burying them in his long locks and clenching them to form tight fists. "You told me, six months ago, that Arthur and I would fall apart if I didn't do something drastic!"

"What the hell are you going on about? When?"

Try as Francis might, he could not manage to recall the night he had spent with Gilbert at the bar — mainly because, although he was one of those rare people gifted with the unusual luck of never having a hangover or suffering from short-period memory losses after a long night of drinking, he'd still been utterly _wasted _that night and even he had his limits, especially if said night had occurred half a year before.

When Gilbert saw that Francis was not going to answer, he angrily continued instead. "So you thought having an affair would fix anything? I thought you were better than that, like I thought your marriage with the brows actually meant something to you. You're not a fucking bachelor anymore, Francis."

"I needed," whispered Francis, "I needed a way to make Arthur stay."

"Wow, look at you, Einstein. Are you satisfied? Has your plan worked?"

"I haven't seen my husband in over a week!" cried Francis, grabbing Gilbert by the shoulders. A few dozen meters away, the children stopped their playing to point at the crazy man who was interrupting their games, whispering all the while in each other's ears. "Arthur was supposed to pay _more _attention to me, not less! I think I am getting progressively sicker every day because of this, because every little thing I see reminds me of him and if this continues I will surely be diagnosed with depression or the likes. But I cannot even _fix _anything because I have no idea what to say or how to apologize, despite dear Antonio's cute efforts."

"What were you thinking when you did it?" asked Gilbert, voice dangerously low. His arms remained fastened by his side. "When you had the affair you knew you would regret, what were you thinking?"

"I don't know," Francis said helplessly, dropping his hands from Gilbert's shoulders.

"When you first told me about it, I laughed —"

"I remember."

"— and I told you that the brows deserved it because of how much shit he pulls with you."

"You take it back now."

"I take it back," Gilbert responded, voice starting to escalate. "You know, I thought you were just kidding around, and that you and Arthur would make up the next night because you two are old perverts and that's what always happens, right, but it looks like you were serious. Aren't you able to draw a line? I feel worse for Artie than I do for you. I'd leave you too, if I were him."

Francis didn't say anything, just stood there and looked hopeless and sad.

* * *

The children were gone now, having been called in by their mothers and fathers in the late hour. One last straggler, a boy on the swings, watched them for a minute more before hopping off to walk home.

"I'd like to take you to the doctor's —" Gilbert continued, trying to appear as though he was still on Francis' side, because he only then probably realized what a crappy thing he'd just said to his best friend who probably needed him more than anyone else in the world at the moment. The silence prolonged. "Apparently, Tony's worried about you too, which is a big surprise because it's not like him to notice things like this. He told me that while you were in the kitchen moping about."

"I threw up on the back of his shirt."

Gilbert made a face. "Disgusting."

"I threw up blood," sniffed Francis prudishly, trying to forget the albino's cruel words. He tilted his face to the skies and cursed himself again and again in every language he knew for being such a weak link.

"Fuck, man. Blood? Seriously? I don't know what to do anymore, or what you should do. I just, I need to get home. Ludwig's probably tearing shit apart right now."

Francis knew that that was a lie, because Ludwig was probably one of the most well-behaved and obedient boys one could ever meet in his or her life (au contraire to his elder brother). He dipped his head quickly in agreement, but then turned sideways so that he could avoid looking at Gilbert.

"Look, I'm no help," Gilbert said.

Francis gave a meek cough in response.

"I mean, I know I'm usually a great help, since it's me and everything. But this is just something you're going to have to do alone, no matter how much you don't want to."

Oh, and how Gilbert knew Francis so well.

"Just at least _try _talking to Arthur. Otherwise, don't even bother asking me or Antonio for a bed anymore. You can sleep out on the streets, where the rest of the dropouts and failures go."

"I'll go to Mathieu's," Francis snapped back, a little bit triumphantly, as he shot Gilbert a look of betrayal.

"Okay, go to Mattie's." The German rolled his shoulders easily. "Go to Mattie's and hole yourself up in his attic and never come back down. And don't regret it a decade from now when you've finally got enough balls to question where your husband is and don't bother trying to patch anything up _then _if you find him. It's not worth it if you choose cowardice over your marriage in the first place _now_."

"Shut up," sighed Francis against the bars, feeling utterly exhausted.

"And," continued the albino in a much gentler tone as he placed a hand on Francis' shoulder, "go see a doctor. Seriously, or I'll drag you there myself."

"I'm not sick, Gilbert. My temperature may be running a little high, but —"

"Francis, I'm not joking around. Go see a doctor. I expect you to tell me how it goes, okay? Two days."

Francis nodded mutely, once, as Gilbert walked away.

* * *

"Welcome back, Francis-san. It's been a while."

"That would be a good thing, I should think," smiled Francis as he leaned into his chair.

"You know I would not be glad to see your health in an improper condition, but I am happy regardless simply seeing _you_."

Francis gave a short-lived smile that omitted his eyes. He, too, had missed Kiku Honda, but he'd never managed to find the time to visit him outside clinic hours. His old college classmate had become over time more of his doctor than simply Kiku, the polite Japanese immigrant who had originally been studying abroad before getting accepted into a medical school in France.

"The same goes for you, Kiku."

"Please, call me Dr. Honda here."

"Sorry. Dr. Honda."

Kiku's pen breezed in his neat shorthand briefly across his clipboard before he set it down. He flipped through the pages attached to Francis' profile, finding the one he needed and then folded his hands in his lap, letting Francis know that he was going to give him his full attention. "We should get started, then. I'll be forward. What brings you to the clinic for the first time in over eight months?"

Francis shrugged. "Truthfully, it was Gilbert and his pretentious concern for me. I feel fine, really."

"Ah. Mr. Beilschmidt? Your old roommate. I remember him." With that, the Asiatic man bit his lip in hesitance, as though unsure of what to say. Francis could almost laugh — that was the impression Gilbert left on most people. "You have a very caring friend, Francis-san, to worry about you so."

"Pretentious worry, I tell you," said Francis, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand. "Gilbert can be serious and mature at times, but I'm afraid this isn't one of them. I think he is overdoing it."

"Overdoing what, may I ask?"

"My being sick. I've been running a slight fever for the past couple weeks or so. Gilbert suggested that I should go see a doctor; he's been bugging me nonstop about it to make sure I follow through with his orders."

"Tell me, if you don't mind," said Kiku, forehead slightly creasing as his brows drew together. "Have you gotten a lot of sleep recently?"

"Not a lot," said Francis truthfully, picking at a stray piece of string on the hem of his sleeve.

"Is it on account of the fever?"

"To be honest, Doctor, the reasons are personal." Francis sighed, hoping not to offend the Japanese man, but he was not in the mood to share all his woes at the moment. "The insomnia is a side effect of inner angst, that's all."

"You don't have to tell me everything," smiled Kiku kindly, "But I'm worried about you, too. Not to be rude, Francis-san, but you look as though you have not been doing well — and I mean that in the most mild-mannered way possible. How long have you been spending in front of the mirror every day?"

Francis almost rolled his eyes, but kept himself under control. "Thirty minutes, give or take," he muttered.

He could swear he heard Kiku do a dramatic gasp. "Only thirty? Is that how you didn't notice the bags underneath your eyes?"

"Most people don't even spend _fifteen _minutes getting ready, much less thirty," continued Francis, now on the defensive. He added under his breath as a side note, "Uncultured swines."

"You don't have to say such things to win me over," said the other, picking up his clipboard once again. "You used to never spend less than an hour and a half getting ready every morning before classes. I remember."

The Frenchman opened then closed his mouth, flabbergasted.

Kiku tapped his chin with his pen three times. "Does this have anything to do with Arthur-san?" he asked nonchalantly, after an appropriate amount of time had passed between his last dramatic statement and this one.

Stubbornly, Francis shook his head, whilst at the same time asking, "How did you guess?"

Kiku shrugged. "I read your atmosphere," he said.

"It couldn't have been that easy to read," Francis twitched, feeling deflated.

"Oh, it wasn't. I just know you very well."

"Not _that _well —"

"Have you done something lately to anger or upset him? Pardon for interrupting."

"It's not a problem," growled Francis.

"That's a yes." Kiku made an exaggerated move with his pen to make a check-mark on Francis' page.

"Kiku —" sighed Francis, pushing himself up from the chair.

"That's Doctor Honda, Francis-san."

"Doctor Honda, I must interject. How do you know it's not _Arthur _who's upset _me?_"

"Nothing Arthur-san could do would upset you to the point of sleep deprivation and a loss of vanity, Mr. Bonnefoy."

"Actually, it _was _something he did!" Francis cried, almost startling the Japanese man out of his skin as he stood up. "He kicked me out of our house and broke my heart!"

"I would advise you to stop being so dramatic," said Kiku in a tone that sounded more serious than it needed to be. Francis sunk back into his seat, frustrated. "I don't think you should push your faults onto another man and have him take the blame, especially not if it's something as serious as this. If I'm wrong, Francis-san, the door is right there."

The dreaded clock made a few taunting noises for an agonizingly long period of time. Francis wondered if he could still preserve his pride if he flirted a little with the doctor and made him see it _his _way.

But the longer he thought about that option, the more he wanted to dismiss it as absolutely ridiculous, which it was.

"You're not wrong," Francis said miserably into his hands.

Kiku hesitated for a long moment before setting down his clipboard and crossing the room to place a hand gently on Francis' back. The Frenchman immediately flinched in surprise, knowing how much the other hated being touched or touching other people — not even out of personal choice, but cultural comfort.

"I'm no therapist," said Kiku gently, "And I'm not forcing myself onto you as one. This session was supposed to be a discussion about your health. But you know that if you ever need someone to talk to, I am here, right?"

Francis nodded, dumbly.

"Francis-san," Kiku said, with even more lingering hesitance creeping in his voice, "What did you do?"

The Parisian, for the first time, looked up directly at the Japanese man. Kiku's eyes seemed to be entrenched in sorrow, and his calm face was unusually full of emotion. Or at least, with as much emotion as he could humanly display.

And though Francis had not felt an ounce of sorrow the night he bedded Chel and the nights again or concerning the lies about his migraines or with the missed calls, he knew he would feel terrible if he looked straight at the man who genuinely wished to help him, standing in front of him right now with all his quiet strength, and cheated the truth to his face.

"I had an affair," Francis choked, his breath catching on the last word.

Kiku Honda stiffened, going positively straight-backed beside Francis. It was already too late for Francis to give a damn about anything anymore, and that certainly included telling Kiku the plain truth.

"Why did you do it?" Kiku murmured, drumming his fingers against Francis' back absentmindedly.

"I have no valid excuses. They were born of pure selfishness."

Kiku's eyes shut for a fleeting moment, and he stayed sitting there in that same position. The dreaded clock continued to tick from across the room, and within, Francis' heart beat twice in time with every second that passed.

* * *

It hadn't been the other's business to intrude upon something so personal, but the Frenchman trusted Kiku — more than he thought he did. Kiku, too, recognized the fragility of the situation and had sent Francis out shortly afterwards with a slip of paper that Francis clutched tightly, labeled with some prescription pills he recommended for ingestion.

_ Please remember,_ Kiku had said in a shaking voice as he led Francis out the door, _I care for Arthur-san deeply. I truly apologize for this, because it's not my position to say anything since I myself have not seen or talked to Arthur-san in years, but I would you not hurt him anymore. If you could._

As he waited in one of the seats near the back of the pharmacy, his eye caught one of the mirrors hanging off a rack nearby. He picked it up with trembling fingers, and realized how right Kiku was. He looked god-awful, like he hadn't smiled in weeks. For what it was worth, that was true.

"Mr. Bonnefoy," came a voice from behind the counter, and Francis slowly put the mirror down and stood up.

"That's me," he answered.

A beautiful young woman smiled prettily up at him, and Francis became aware with a jolt that he hadn't even the heart to flirt anymore. She passed him a white paper bag with the receipt stapled to it, and Francis took it with some resignation. Out of habit, he opened the bag to peer inside.

"What's this?" he asked, pulling out a small, unfamiliar box.

"Doctor Honda called personally to ask that we put it with the rest of your medication."

_ You might have a respiratory tract infection. I suggest you take these antibiotics — and some aspirin, to be on the safe side._

"I think you're mistaken," said Francis, laughing nervously, for he didn't want to embarrass the girl. "I just came down from his office, we've already discussed what I needed."

He placed the box on the counter, pushing it away, but the other only picked it up and pressed it back in his hands. "Doctor Honda insisted," she said. "It can't hurt, can it?"

"It can," Francis said angrily. He flipped the cursed object over and scanned the words neatly imprinted upon it, as though hoping that this was all some sort of hideous joke. _HIV 1&2 Rapid Screen Test, results within five minutes. _"I don't have HIV."

"I don't know what to say. It wasn't my decision, sir."

"Is there a problem?" An older man, tanned in pigmentation, slid up beside the girl and leaned his thin elbows across the table. He spied Francis' hand, and then Francis' face, which was absolutely blank. "Sir, we're not insinuating anything. It's probably simply a precautionary measure."

"Would it be possible for me to see Doctor Honda again?" asked the blond calmly, disregarding how uncomfortable the other two looked. He was burning inside in anger —how could Kiku think that Francis was the sort of man this kind of thing happens to, and then go behind his back by slipping this HIV test in his belongings without his knowledge or permission?

"I'm afraid not, sir; this not a walk-in. You have to book an appointment ahead of time."

The Frenchman was about to say, _I'll do that now, thank you_, and flip open his phone dramatically, but then he remembered that he no longer possessed one and he suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of exhaustion come over him.

He only wanted to return home — his real home — and sleep.

He took his things and left, hating Kiku Honda for all he was — for pretending he knew Francis better than Francis knew himself, for trying to lecture him on how to take care of Arthur, for being a damned doctor with a high paying salary.

The HIV testing kit would later go underneath Antonio's bathroom essentials, hidden behind unopened packages of toothpastes and toothbrushes dusty with negligence, to be forgotten in resentment for a while yet.


	3. Chapter Three

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 3256 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Arthur makes an appearance and Francis writes a letter.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Francis paused in front of the door, staring at it as though he'd never seen such a thing before. He raised his hand to knock, gingerly, and only got as far as the first rap before he gave up and slumped against it, pressing his forehead on the cold painted wood and sighing deeply.

That's when the door opened.

The Frenchman almost stumbled straight forwards into the arms of one not-so-content Arthur Kirkland, but he managed to catch himself from falling just on time with the door frame. He straightened, looked cautiously at the other's face, and was met with a glowering glare.

"Arthur," he stammered, fidgeting with the end of his shirt — a nasty habit he somehow managed to pick up during his absence.

The Briton held up a contraption in his hands, face completely blank, and Francis' heart froze at the sight. His old cellular, cracked in a thousand different places, was somehow still running — and it beeped and hummed joyously as though Francis' presence alone was worthwhile of all its attention. Treacherously, the screen displayed the very last conversation he had open —

_Hey, u busy tonight? ;)_

_L'Éther? I can bring someone I think you'd enjoy…_

_Text me back, babee, imy_

"Chel," Francis seethed.

"Who?" asked Arthur.

"Nobody."

"No, tell me." The Briton leaned against the door coolly, arms crossed, waiting patiently for the Frenchman to figure out what he needed to say.

Francis didn't know why he was there. He had finally been kicked out by Antonio, finally been betrayed by his last singular friend, and he had mindlessly walked to the only other place on earth that he knew — to home, to Arthur.

So this was what it came down to.

"Arthur, je t'aime," he said suddenly, slipping back into French as naturally as though he was speaking to anyone else before his mind could even process what was happening.

A livid expression passed Arthur's face like never seen before, and a hot colour rose from the bottom of his throat up until it hit his hairline. The Briton moved fast. Furiously he slammed the door against Francis' fingers, and the Frenchman leapt back, yelping. He swore heavily as he shook his throbbing hand, but he was back on the offensive in no time because it'd taken him too long to find the courage to come here and he was not going to sit down now.

"Je t'aime!" he said to the door, leaning his whole figure against it. "Arthur, please talk to me, I came back so that I could make it up to you, so that we could talk —"

"I hate you!" came the voice on the other end. "I hate you, and I don't know how you could dare show your froggy face here again. I thought you were gone for good, I thought I'd never have to see you again and I was _glad, _goddammit, I was happy. Get the fuck away!"

"I'm sorry," he begged, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. Dieu, he meant it. He could say it for the rest of his life and he would never be able to mean it more — even though he was _Francis_, Francis who never apologized, Francis who was always more prideful than he was worth. "I'm sorry, and I've missed you so much, please just let me explain —"

"Fuck you!" screamed Arthur. "Don't bloody shove your lies down my ears, I don't want to hear them! I don't want to hear you ever again, don't you get it? Can't you understand?"

"Damn it, I _know! _I can't leave, I'm not going to leave. Open up, eyebrows!"

"Shut up! Just shut up! I —" here Francis heard pounding from the other side of the wall — "I hate you —" with a pound on every syllable, " — and I don't know why I ever married you. I can't believe you did it. I can't believe you did that to me! I thought you loved me!"

"I do! I always have!"

"Just you wait," said Arthur, in a voice too vicious, too cruel to be truly him, and Francis could almost envision the loathing on his face as he said this with sneering conviction, "Just you wait, Francis fucking Kirkland-Bonnefoy. As soon as I can — a-as soon as I can, I'm going to divorce your ass."

A wave of nausea passed over the Frenchman but he hastily forced it back down his throat, swallowing heavily and feeling disgusted with himself. He felt like he was going to pass out right then and there; he felt fatigued, like an old horse that's been worked too many years. "You don't mean that," he whispered hoarsely. "You wouldn't do that to me. I need you."

A heavy silence pervaded their argument, and for a brief moment Francis thought that Arthur had simply left him to rot on his doorstep. It was not unlikely. Francis slid down the door, his back against it, and brought his knees up against his chest, counting through the seconds.

One-two-three —

"_You came. I didn't think you would," Francis had said, back when being insecure was enough evidence of being infatuated. _

"_Are you kidding?" Arthur's youthful laugh became lost to the winds as he slid up next to Francis against the Mirabeau railing. "I wouldn't miss seeing you for the world."_

Four-five-six —

"_Have you brushed up on your flower language?" _

"_Of course. This one's too easy." Arthur looked down at it, realizing how much more effectual and loud the bouquet could communicate compared to the spoken word. "Ha-ha, took you long enough."_

Seven-Eight-Nine —

"_I think I love you," said Francis unexpectedly, turning around with a beautiful smile on his face as the revelation washed over him, bringing with it immediate thoughts of the urgent need to share the news with the only other person he ever could. _

"_I know," Arthur responded, matching his smile. _

Ten-Eleven-Twelve —

"Why wasn't I good enough for you?" asked Arthur, quietly. "Why wasn't I _ever _good enough for you?"

"Oh, cher," Francis said into his arms, not really thinking, "You were. It was me. It was my fault."

"Fuck you," said Arthur again bitterly from the other side, and Francis wondered if they were always going to be like this until their dying days. Always with something between them, a wall that could never be broken down — with the two of them on different sides of it, like two doomed lovers never meant to be together in the very first place.

And they'd thought that they could work around their differences.

"I'll do anything to have you forgive me," said Francis softly, feeling his pride crumble and wither into the dust as though he had physically ground it there himself. "I-I'll get up early every morning and make whatever you want, I'll get a second job because I know how much you've been complaining about our bills -"

"You don't get it," Arthur interrupted, voice flat with lack of concern.

"I do," admitted Francis, choking up. "Please, I do."

The hallway in which he was sitting was completely silent. Perhaps in the other flats there were families, listening with their cheeks pressed against their walls, marveling, with hushed giggles, at the silliness that could go on between two people. Or perhaps they were shutting out the noise, for he knew that there were yet still some in the world who looked at what they had with revulsion.

He couldn't blame them.

"I have a question."

Arthur's voice had gotten so quiet now that Francis questioned if it was really Arthur at all, since it was Arthur who liked to act so confident usually — the only way the Brit knew to hide his insecurities and weaknesses.

(But then again, to be fair, both were horribly out of touch with their emotions).

Francis traced a circle on his left knee with a bruised finger and speculated if there was any way anything could go back to the way it used to be, in a time when neither he nor Arthur were adults with bills and responsibilities but rather young teenagers, tender and sensitive, who could fall in love too easily and fall out just as.

Was that what he wanted, then — the lack of a sense of commitment?

"Why did you do it?"

Francis replied, "To get your attention."

There was a pause — and then he heard a shifting noise as Arthur, too, slid down so that the two were almost back to back — and would be, if it wasn't for the block of wood between them.

"Are you happy now?" asked Arthur, sounding pitiful and weak.

"You know I'm not," responded Francis finally, feeling the words leave his chest as heavily as though he was telling a lie.

"I don't. Not anymore. I don't even know what we are anymore. I don't know where you went these past weeks or what you did and I kept trying to give you the benefit of the doubt but you wouldn't even talk to me. How can I trust you anymore, when the first thing you did was run?"

Francis stayed silent, fearful that he would say something out of place like he always did and ruin Arthur's train of thought. Arthur was a very private man, and there were few occasions when his true thoughts revealed themselves. Here was one of them.

"You disappeared for the longest time," whispered Arthur. "Were you really so afraid of what I'd say or do that you ran away and hid from me? Didn't you ever think of the fact that maybe I needed you, too?"

The Frenchman bit into his lips, feeling tears spring into his eyes. He blinked hard, forcing the wetness away, and wiped at his dry cheeks absentmindedly.

"I think we should go on a break," said Arthur, and Francis' heart broke in two.

* * *

Arthur gave him here a chance to speak, to say whatever he wanted, but all Francis could do was sit there in shock, playing Arthur's words over and over again in his head like a water-washed record.

_Break._

Married couples didn't go on breaks. Married couples sat down and talked their problems over, figured out where the bump in the road was and the best way to approach it. Married couples made compromises and sacrifices. Married couples forgave and forget.

Married couples didn't break apart so easily. Married couples didn't go on breaks.

Arthur slowly opened the door, looking down at Francis' small, hunched figure.

"I love you," Francis managed to say one final time, as he turned around to face his husband — tears hanging precariously off the ends of his lashes — as Arthur helped him stand up and the two looked each other straight in the eye. "I will always love you, for the rest of this lifetime and for the rest of the next and all the other ones to come after that, if they exist."

"Francis," said Arthur in a shaking voice, "Francis, don't make this harder than it needs to be. This is something I need — something I think we _both _need."

"Don't push me away, Arthur," Francis begged, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and digging his nails into the other's skin as if to say, _see me_ _I have something important to tell you please listen I'm right here I've always been here,_ "If you told me to jump off a bridge I'd ask which one. If you asked me to shoot myself in the chest, I'd ask how many times — because, because —" He gripped the Englishman tighter when words failed him, but the other could only look away, refusing to meet his searching gaze.

"Let go," said Arthur, sounding empty inside.

And Francis did.

"You're right," Francis stammered on, tears rolling freely down his cheeks now as his eyes searched desperately for any sign of regression from Arthur's face. "You're right that I was afraid to tell you. I wanted you to look at me, more than anything in the world, but I took it too far and I was scared you'd hurt me and leave me forever. This is my fault. This is all my fault."

The truths that he'd holed up for such a long time inside his black chest were spilling out now like they should have a long time ago.

"Forgive me, Arthur," Francis said softly, his breath catching as he choked back a sob. "Forgive me, for I have sinned. She didn't mean anything to me — not the way you do. Not the way you'll ever. I love you. I love you. I love you."

Arthur, too, started to cry after the first _I love you_ — an alarming sight to Francis, who'd never seen the man cry before. Sure, he knew that Arthur _did _cry, but it'd always been at least a room away.

Wasn't the ability to cry in front of another a sign of trust?

And didn't that just say something about their relationship?

"I can't look at you," said Arthur breathlessly, turning around even as Francis leaned forwards to cup his face. And how that broke Francis' heart —

"Turn around, Arthur," urged Francis desperately, although Arthur kept jerking away. "Turn around!"

"Don't," mumbled Arthur as Francis pressed their faces together. He resisted feebly, pushing at Francis' chest.

"Don't do this to me, you can't do this to me, don't do this to _us_ —"

"Francis, you have to leave," cried Arthur, kissing Francis on the forehead and bringing Francis' head to his heart as the Frenchman slid down on his knees to wrap his arms around Arthur's torso. "You have to leave," he repeated tonelessly.

And that's when Francis knew it was truly, doubtlessly hopeless.

"I'll go get your stuff," Arthur choked, breaking away from his husband and leaving him kneeling on the ground with his arms hanging by his side.

* * *

Arthur,

I am in love with you.

I still remember seeing you the first time. You probably do not, I am sure, because so many years have passed since then. You thought our together began only the month you transitioned into an adult, and there has never been anyone to tell you otherwise, but my memory plays itself out differently. I remember the Londoner in Marseille, the shadow of a young boy on a beach with the rolling tide coming in from the south; I remember watching you, breathless, from the ports with the taste of seawater on my lips and seeing the gulls soar overhead like Baudelaire's albatross, wondering when it would be that we would meet again.

That, I believe, is the whole extent of my memory. Though faint as it is, I have learned from then how to adore someone and for every day since that you have kept yourself from me I have died a little waiting for you to return home.

I know love is a trifling thing, to those who have experienced it firsthand and suffered early tragic deaths. It seems played on a day-by-day basis, easy to come across and easier to lose and worthless in the long run. Whatever fruits cultured from such labour would be reduced to the cinders beneath our feet, crushed by the petty meanderings of our background characters but a mote of dust in the grand stage of the Lord; there they will become remnants of a dream we will never commit to memory, ephemeral regards of a distant once-previous, attempts to stay a wake of a lost thought disturbed from its path — and such is the way of life.

I know this, you see.

We could search under the breath of a million dying galaxies for the certainty that will never be revealed to us, and we could keep on searching till the end of time. We could be confronted with the truth of our mortality today, in seconds, in hours, tomorrow, and still be as unprepared as we were when we took our first breath as nude babes. We could wane and lose ourselves in the sands of the universe, forgotten for all eternity, without even the faintest trace of a truth — and I think we will, because the revelation of an untruth is simply inevitable in nature.

Oft I wonder of God and why He has left us with so many old pains; that is what love feels, I think. Wonders of doubts of wonder.

Do you wish He'd not left so much unsaid so that I may be a better man for you — so that I may have the wisdom to say all the right things, to stay with you for all the right reasons?

The day I saw you I thought, maybe not love at first sight, but somewhere out there, poems are being written about us. Prose of writers centuries-old, timeless with their words, breathed to life through the lingering symmetries of two romantics — strong in the belief that they were born into the wrong century — waiting patiently for the day they promise each other infinity.

Until then, even if we never receive our answers, come through the nimbus with me. You could do it easily, I'm sure — for you were already made from the atoms of angels, who from beyond can observe the passing lives of this world. If I cannot make it through, you could watch me as they do, keep me, judge me. You sing a magic no man could ever capture, and I would feel less lonely under your honest wings than I ever have in my entire existence.

And as cliche as it may sound, I think we were meant to be together. You made me realize I could never be Francis without Arthur and you complete me, make me whole, have since before I understood why.

I am in love with you, my love, and I have been since that day. I think I have loved you forever.

I think we are worth it, despite my faults and insolences, because in spite of growing up in ignorance of what commitment and dedication is and even today not having yet learned, you have bettered me without knowing all the answers yourself and you have taught me to create my own. Here they are:

I need you more than you need me —

— but maybe I could make you learn to love me again like you did for me that first day, and awaken in you the joy I feel with you — the joy I had been waiting to feel every minute of my days before I knew you — that I wish we could revel in together as the couple we were before I ruined us.

One more chance.

Yours always,

Francis Bonnefoy

* * *

The letter was fluttering slightly in the breeze, struggling against the tight grasp of Francis' shaking fingers. He'd written it the day before his fateful meeting with Arthur in a fit of drunken stupor after Kiku's betrayal, and he was so close to slipping it into the mailbox to send to Arthur as a last, desperate act of repentance; so close.

But his heart was contained within the envelope and then some, because he had worn his soul on his lips as he whispered the words he meant to write when he wrote it. If Arthur read this, maybe, just maybe, he could grasp even the tiniest inkling of Francis' sorrow.

Making an impulsive decision, Francis tore the letter in half, and left the pieces to the wind.


	4. Chapter Four

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4814 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Francis speaks with Matthew and learns a thing or two.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

"Feliz Navidad!" Antonio beamed as he threw open the door, expecting the pizza man but seeing instead a miserable looking blond dripping wet on his doormat.

"I think Arthur and I are over," croaked Francis hoarsely.

"Oh, Francis," said Antonio, feeling wretched for his friend. He decided then and there that he could afford to be selfless — especially on a night like this one — and threw his door open wide. He invited Francis in, took the duffel bag the Frenchman was carrying, helped the blond remove his coat, and brushed off the snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. "Are you alright?" he asked kindly.

"Not really."

Antonio looked helplessly from the man in front of him to the kitchen wall, where he knew that behind it was seated his guests (one of whom was extremely impatient). He suddenly felt a bit sick, like he couldn't believe he was actually going to sit down happily without even a thought to invite his friend to eat with them when he knew what troubling times the Frenchman was going through.

"Well…would you like to join us?" asked Antonio.

"Us?"

"Bella and Lovina and my parents. It's Christmas, Francis."

"Is it?"

"Antonio?" came a feminine voice from the kitchen. "Did you get the pizza?"

"Why are you having pizza on Christmas Eve?" asked Francis with a bit of humour in his voice.

"Pizza is an all-year-round meal," Antonio defended before raising his voice. "Um…not quite, Bella! Uh, it's Francis! He's feeling a bit down. I'll just take him upstairs and make sure he's alright for a while, okay?"

As much as Francis wanted to grab Antonio's arms and plead for the man to stay with him forever and to _never leave his side,_ he knew it'd be wrong for him to do so. With a heavy sigh, he waved the Spaniard's hands away. "You don't have to do that; I'll leave you alone, I just need somewhere to stay the night. _Please_, mon ami, I swear to you this will be the last time I ever burden you on my behalf — I just, I honestly do not know where else to go."

Francis' words struck hard and fast his own chest, wounding his already-wounded pride. He was at his lowest point now for he had no home, no food, hardly any money — and to ask Antonio for a place to stay the night in such a manner was akin to beseeching the strangers on the streets for scraps of food. To him, he was no longer a friend asking another friend a favour, for he had exhausted his number long ago. Now he was simply deadweight, to be pitied by those he once called his equals. He felt horrible for imposing upon the Spaniard's dinner but he was literally left with no choice — it was either this, because Gilbert and Feli and Matthew's houses were too far away to walk to, or a spot on the streets.

"You are _always _welcome here," said Antonio firmly. "It was Gilbert who insisted I kick you out in the first place, but that will be for the last time. If you ever need a place to return to, this is it."

Francis looked up with such gratitude in his eyes that Antonio's resolve broke and he hugged the other man quickly and tightly. "Thank you," said Francis into his shoulder, "Thank you _so much_."

"Yes, yes," said Antonio with some hesitance, wondering what on earth could have happened for Francis to have seemingly sunken like so. Not that the blond didn't stay over often — there was just a new air of openness and tenderness about him that Antonio had never witnessed before. His eyes then found Francis' fingers, and he grabbed them impulsively, ignoring his friend's hiss of pain. "Dios mio! What happened?"

Francis slid his hand from Antonio's tight grasp, biting back a grim smile. "It wasn't Arthur, if that's what you're thinking," he lied automatically, defending the very man who committed the deed.

Antonio didn't want to push it. But because he wanted to say at least _something _else before he wandered away to spend the rest of his evening surrounded by family and friends in union, he added with great reluctance, "I hope you'll be okay on your own," all the while slowly pulling his eyes away from the other's hand with excruciating effort.

"I will be. Do you still have my things here?"

"Yes, I didn't touch anything." Antonio kept shooting worried looks back at the fingers, every single one black and swollen save for the thumb.

"May I borrow your phone? I want to call Gilbert."

"Yes, of course."

Francis got up and began to move slowly to the guest room, shuffling like an old man, a ghost of the youthful flirt he used to be. "Thank you," he added again.

"Feliz Navidad, Francis," Antonio whispered as he watched his best friend depart.

"Joyeux Noël, Antonio," returned Francis in a voice equally as meek.

* * *

The phone rang six times before somebody finally picked up. "Hallo," came the easy and reassuring voice of his German compatriot. "Gilbert Beilschmidt speaking."

"Gil, it's me," said Francis, sitting on Antonio's washroom floor and digging through the unused drawers, looking for the medication he had tossed and forgotten with the household phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.

"Hey, Franny. What's going on?"

Francis opened his mouth to tell the albino the news between him and Arthur, but decided better of it. "I hope I'm not intruding upon anything right now," he fessed instead.

"Not at all. I actually have your brother over at the moment, but I don't think he minds. We were just about to sit down and watch a hockey game. Say hi, Mattie! You're on speaker, Franny."

"Hello, Francis!"

Francis' heart rose upon hearing Matthew's sweet voice. "Hello, darling. I trust you are doing well?"

"Yeah. Why are you calling from Antonio's? I thought you would be with Arthur."

"We…we had a bit of a falling out."

"Oh, I see," hummed Matthew, because that was something he could easily believe. "On Christmas too, eh? I'm really sorry. If I'd known I would have invited you over or something. Or I'm sure Gil would've."

Francis sighed and leaned against the bathroom wall, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Matthew was the perfect person to talk to at the moment. "I…Matthew, could I speak with you? Privately?"

"Sure, you have my attention. I gotta talk to Francis alone for a sec, okay, Gil? Wait — ow, _Alfred_, get off! Yeah, okay. Okay. I'm alone."

"Alfred is also there?" Francis asked.

"Yes."

He almost chuckled at the frown he could literally hear coming through his brother's voice. "I hope you won't be distracted," he said worriedly, because he did not want their conversation to be cut off midway, which he knew would be only too easy if the company at Gilbert's was watching a hockey game and Alfred was there too.

"Nah. I mean…you sound upset. I'd rather talk to you."

A smile flitted across Francis' features. "Thank you," he said awkwardly, because he was genuinely touched. The two had been extremely close in their childhoods even though they basically grew up on opposite sides of the world due to their parents' divorce. Francis still liked to believe that he was the only thing that could come between Matthew and his hockey (even if the _Canadiens_ were playing).

"You know," said the other in an offhand manner, "I tried contacting you several times this past week. You wouldn't pick up your cell, and whenever I called your home phone I always got the machine."

"Oh."

Francis was too cowardly to tell Matthew about the affair. He would always be too cowardly, and he hated himself for it.

"My cell phone's been out of service for a while, and I guess you just got unlucky with the home phone. I was there. We both were. Arthur and I, that is," Francis lied through his teeth.

"Okay," Matthew said, and Francis could literally once again hear that frown. "Tell me what's up, eh?"

The Frenchman decided to get straight to the point. "I need some advice."

"Advice?"

"_Romantic _advice."

"Francis, is it that serious?"

Francis nodded grimly, though he knew Matthew couldn't see. His eyes wandered over Antonio's tomato print shower curtains, and the tomato scented shampoo and conditioners. How best to say this?

"Do you think Arthur and I were meant to be together?" he asked finally, in a voice almost as soft as the Canadian's.

There was a short pause on the other line. "No," came Matthew's reply after some time, and Francis' heart seized up at the word. "If you really were, you wouldn't be fighting all the time and you'd both have a lot of mutual interests and a healthier connection. But I don't think everyone is going to end up like that — I think the two of you made it work, and that's what the most important thing about being in a committed relationship is."

"Being stuck with someone you hate because you can't help it, so having to put up with them anyway?" Francis asked dully.

"Exact — no! No, that's not what I meant." Here Francis pictured Matthew chewing his bottom lip in great reluctance, the habit he'd had since he was still in dresses.

"Look, we're not hopeless teenagers anymore, forever stuck in the mentality that first loves always last and we'll all marry our set soul mates — as much as it kills me to acknowledge it," said the Canadian. "I think you'll find someone out there who might not be the perfect match for you, and because you can't help who you fall in love with then maybe despite the imperfections you'll _become _the perfect match. But being in a relationship takes work — and you have to work at it, every single day, if you want it to turn out for the better."

"If that's the case," complained Francis, "I could find another Arthur anywhere in the world — he'd hardly be one of a kind anymore. I could love the new Arthur instead, one without huge eyebrows. Maybe a French one."

"Yes," Matthew said patiently, "You could, but then again, you don't really have a say in who you get to fall in love with — just like how you don't have a say in the parents you were born to or the circumstances which you were born under. The choices you get to make are those already preset by pure coincidence — or maybe Providence, who knows — and then whatever consequences withholding will eventually shape you into the person you are and choose the people you will meet, because you are free to live the way you want but you are not free from aftermaths of your decisions and all."

"Where are you going with this?"

"Maybe we do have a soul mate," said Matthew in his thoughtful, whisper-gentle way, "Someone who is the perfect match for us, somewhere out there in the great wide universe. But it's more than likely he or she has already lived and died five hundred years ago, or that he or she has not even yet been born. As tragic as it sounds, I don't think any of us are ever meant to find our soul mates, because that's not how life works.

"What I'm getting to is that though it's very likely that God — if he may exist — made your mirror match, it's unlikely you'll find him, or her. I think, however, that what you have with Arthur is even more special — because you _weren't _meant to be together from the start, yet you still love each other despite all the obstacles that set you apart. And you two found each other, a one-in-seven-billion chance, because of the roads you decided to take. I think, in a way, you've _made _Arthur your soul mate. I think _you _chose that one-in-seven-billion."

"It's disheartening then," Francis said sadly, after a lengthy amount of time, "That if what you say is true, then Arthur and I will only know each other in this lifetime."

"Who knows?" asked Matthew sweetly.

"Who indeed," muttered Francis.

"Just think of it this way," said Matthew. "If there exists an infinite number of possibilities and an infinite number of lives you've lived through and will live through, in _this _one you've gone as far as to _marry _Arthur even though you know the state doesn't approve of it. Even though you might not have been meant for each other, you've fallen in love anyway and if you had the choice I'm sure you'd do it again. Don't you think that says something?"

Francis' heart swelled in his love for his younger brother, and he hoped against hopes that in all the other universes possibly existent, Matthew was there for him too.

* * *

He wondered, as he waited in Antonio's bathroom, if Matthew was right.

The concept of a soul mate had always been a strange thing to Francis, and he had taken care never to dwell upon it too much because he simply did not care. It seemed, though, that he'd reached a point where this was all he could ever worry about — this was the decisive answer to the questions in his letter, the difference in whether he maintained his marriage or lost it — and the Frenchman, maybe due to his own insecurity, decided to take Matthew's advice to heart.

He could hear the Christmas celebration go on outside the bathroom, all the cheering and laughter — and the lights that seeped through the cracks under and around the bathroom door — and sitting on the cool ceramic floor with the phone in his injured hand Francis felt unbelievably lonely.

He deserved it, though, this loneliness; he would bear it for as long as need be until Arthur came in terms with what had happened between them. If Arthur decided to give up on him, he would accept that and leave the other man alone. Otherwise, he would do everything in his power to never, ever step out of line again. God willing.

He had learned his lesson.

* * *

The phone was then transferred back to Gilbert.

"What were you talking about?" grumbled he. "Mattie was gone for ages. He missed the beginning of the game."

"Tell him I am sorry," said Francis, wiping his nose. He went back to sorting through Antonio's things with one hand, phone in the other. He was almost tempted to put the call on speaker, but that would be awkward if any of Antonio's family came around the place looking for the toilet and overheard.

"Yeah, he's whatever about it. But you know, he misses you."

The Frenchman stiffened.

"What?" he asked.

"Matthew. Mattie misses you."

"I —" Francis hesitated, unsure. What did Gilbert mean? He called Matthew often enough, at least once a month or so, and he had only just then spoken with him. "Why would he?"

"Because you're his brother? I don't know. I guess he feels like you're cutting him off or something. As do we all, I guess."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Gilbert sighed heavily into the phone, and Francis had a vision of the German kicking back in his bedroom alone, with Matthew and Alfred in the living room cheering loudly at the hockey match. "He's never said it directly, but he's always going on about how he wants to visit you and how you don't ever call and how he wants you to come over more with this sad look in his eyes. From what I hear, I'm under the impression that you two used to tell each other everything. Do you even know what's going on with him anymore?"

"No," Francis admitted guiltily, because for the past half-year he'd been too immersed in his own affairs to think about anyone else.

"Well, for one, he's thinking about proposing to this one chick."

"What?!" yelped Francis, accidentally letting go of the phone. It slid into the sink and he whacked his hand on an open drawer in a wild attempt to grab it mid-air. He rapidly picked it up again and pressed it to his ear. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," laughed Gilbert.

"Who is this chick? How long have they been together?"

"A year, about."

"A —"

Francis smacked a palm to his forehead, distressed. Matthew — Matthew, engaged to some female he didn't even know? _His _baby brother, his protege, his darling? "Why didn't you tell me?" he hissed.

"Hey, don't push this on me," retorted Gilbert.

The albino stuck-up was right. He couldn't. It was completely and utterly Francis' fault that he wasn't giving his brother the attention he deserved — it was all his fault, just like everything else that was wrong in the damned world. If a dog died somewhere in Moscow he was sure it'd be his fault, too. He couldn't believe this. He couldn't _believe _it. He had _just_ talked to Matthew, hadn't he — did he really forget to even ask how the other was doing?

"I'll speak with him later," mumbled Francis, resuming his search.

"Yeah, you'd better. I mean, it's not like you guys live far from each other. Invite him and the chick over sometime, won't you? Together, I mean. Like a double date or whatever, with you and the brows. No matter how embarrassing _that_'ll turn out. You know what, damn. I can't even remember her name right now."

Francis then remembered that he hadn't even anyone to double-date with anymore. He clenched the phone a bit too tightly for an instant, and yanked at a cabinet more harshly than he meant to. It came flying open, almost hitting him on the nose, and inside he found exactly what he'd been looking for — his medicine.

"I will," he said hastily, eager to change the subject. "Well, you know, let's not discuss that now. The only real reason I called was to tell you about my trip to the doctor's."

"I thought as much." The sound of Gilbert sitting up in bed, the sound of sheets rustling. "So? What happened? It was the flu, wasn't it — I swear, it's been going around. I tried opening this drug station at work, where people could pick up pills and stuff for precautionary measures, but my boss wouldn't buy it. Now everyone is getting sick and it's all his fault, serves that old man right —"

"Respiratory tract infection," Francis mused, turning over the bottle in his hand. "That's what Kiku said I had."

"Oh. Is it serious?"

Francis laughed. "I don't have it, is what I mean. I told you I wasn't really sick, just had a mild fever or something. I mean, for the past week or so, I've been feeling disgusting — I still throw up all the time, and I've been aching all over, but it isn't anything too bad — least of all something to do with my respiratory tract. I think Dr. Honda was just pulling things out of his ass so that he wouldn't have to send me back empty-handed, because for one, I'm not even coughing in the least. Shouldn't that be a pretty important clue that I've a windpipe infection?"

"Point being, you're okay now?"

"I'm okay." A smile tugged on the corners of Francis' lips, knowing that Gilbert still cared in that coarse, floundering way of his. "Thank you, though, for sending me anyway, although I do believe I was correct from the beginning."

"Ha-ha. Be sure to take whatever Kiku's given you, just in case. I know you're upset about the shit that's been going on and all, but that doesn't give you an excuse to ignore the Doc." Gilbert's tone turned fatherly and strict — if 'fatherly' was a word that could even be used to describe him. "You hear me, Franny?"

"Yeah," though he didn't really.

Then Francis saw it, that which he had almost completely forgotten about until that moment. He lifted the HIV-testing box, the one Kiku had prescribed for him behind his back not too long ago, brows pulling into a frown.

"And," continued the German, "Who knows? Maybe there's the one-in-a-billion chance that you've actually the infection."

"One-in-seven-billion, you mean?" Francis mused.

"Huh?"

"Gilbert?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"I'll call you back."

Without waiting for a reply, Francis pressed the _off _button and placed the phone gently on the counter. He opened the box.

* * *

He was trembling, but Francis suddenly very much wanted to go through with this.

He was all at once terrified.

Matthew's words were still spinning around his head, and then Kiku's and Antonio's and Gilbert's. He had no idea which to listen to anymore except for the treacherous voice of his own that was slowly growing in horrid curiosity, but even then he could not blot out the others.

He was kneeling on the floor with the box on top of the toilet and he emptied its contents quickly before throwing it away without looking at it. What had come out was a small white package and the manual, and he flattened the latter out.

His face had grown flush and he could hear his blood pounding through his veins. What if Kiku had been right, like he was about everything?

_Goddamn it, what if Kiku was right?_

Slowly, ever so slowly, Francis ripped open the packaging and a pile of foreign objects he'd never seen before tumbled onto the seat. His eyes scanned the instructions sheet, looking only at the pictures rather than focusing on the useless side commentary — it looked simple enough, so simple.

When he was fumbling for the blood lancet, Francis's stomach coiled for a second and he thought that he was going to hurl. Even when he steadied himself using the bathtub, his stomach protested again, and the Frenchman felt horribly sick as it kept going. He covered his mouth with one hand — swearing that if he looked in the mirror now he'd see his face turning green — whilst he used the other to break the key from the lancet.

He couldn't have it — of course he couldn't. There would be signs, wouldn't there? Symptoms? Throwing up didn't count — that was too minuscule a detail, not for such a terrible disease.

He removed his hand from his face, making sure not to notice the line of red connecting his hand to his lips, and stapled his index finger with the needle-like contraption before he could think twice; then he lowered the finger as steadily as he could to the testing card.

The blood from his finger was a harsh colour, he noticed — pure and dark, untainted by half-digested food or mucus like the blood he'd been so used to seeing whenever he threw up.

He reached for the instructions next, not sure of what to do. Apparently he had to mix the blood with a few drops of diluent; he had no idea how to open the diluent and he was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating now, so he simply broke the cap. The liquid spilled everywhere — though Francis managed to salvage what he could and messily apply it to the card, hoping that that would do.

Outside, he could hear the sound of someone drawing nearer to the bathroom — and he jumped when he heard a sharp rap on the door, remembering only then that Antonio's bathroom didn't have a lock (or a doorknob for that matter) because Gilbert had broken it some three years ago and never bothered to pay for the reparations. "S-s-someone's in here," he said nervously, grabbing toilet paper to sponge up the mess.

"Francis?" came Antonio's voice, and Francis breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn't anyone else. From inside, he was trying to clean everything up, but he was shaking so badly that he kept knocking things over and generally making a huge mess. "I was just wondering if you wanted some dinner. Are you alright in there?"

"F-fine!" Francis said, casting futile looks at the card as he stumbled around the bathroom. He had no idea how long one was supposed to wait for the results to come back, or how one could tell whether they were positive or negative.

He had never felt claustrophobic before this.

"Can I come in?"

"No!" Francis grabbed the card, resisting the urge to shake it. _Come on,_ he pleaded silently. _Come on, show me. Show me what I want to see._

"Um…you aren't throwing up again, are you?"

"_No_, Antonio, dear, you're lovely," he babbled as he stuffed what he could into his jean pockets (jeans that had not been washed in days). All that remained lying in the open now was the card, and he made a grab for it.

He put it in Antonio's mirror cabinet and managed to clasp his hands behind his back just as the Spaniard came into the room, looking for all the world an innocent child as he rolled on the balls of his feet.

Antonio looked positively alarmed. "I called for you," he chided. "You could've at least told me what was going on so I wouldn't have to be worried."

Francis chewed on his bottom lip, willing Antonio to leave (even if it was the other's house). Everything boiled down to the insignificant piece of plastic sitting behind Antonio's green toothbrush and cup and the crumpled up piece of paper in his back pocket. His heart was slamming up and down his throat and he could scarcely hear anything else over the sound, except for the imploring thoughts running through his mind begging Antonio to leave him alone.

Antonio, seeing the look in his friend's eyes, for once read the atmosphere correctly and left without another word, although he continuously cast furtive glances back. His face read, _you don't tell me anything anymore. _

Francis would apologize to the Spaniard later. One day.

Now that he had all the time in the world, he retrieved the card and placed it carefully next to the sink. He didn't even bother shutting the door, because he knew Antonio wouldn't be returning.

Carefully, he unfolded the instructions sheet and placed it next to the card, even though the sink counter was wet and the paper was beginning to get soggy. "One line means HIV negative," he murmured, "Two lines means positive."

Then he looked back at the card. There was still nothing showing, so he took it gently with his damaged fingers, praying to the God he had forsaken that He would come through for him now, and sat himself on the seat of the toilet.

Slowly, the first blue line began to show, and Francis' blood pressure skyrocketed.

"One in seven billion," he whispered to himself, as though he truly believed that to be the statistical chance one could contract the virus. One man in a world of seven billion, a tiny fish in a great ocean — because those were the hopes of a man with none.

He was smelling seawater, for some reason. In a panicked sort of delusion Francis wondered if he was hallucinating out of fear, and even as he tried to push that thought away the smell kept entering his nostrils and clouding his mind. He was suddenly hearing gulls and water, and the laugh of distant children somewhere far, far away.

_Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse, _mused his wandering reflections as he watched the waves of water roll into the edge of France, country of his soul, his heart, his genius, and the sea clashed with land.

And then something else began to show on the card, as blue as the Mediterranean he so missed.

It eased its way slowly into Francis' perception the way the disease in his body was now, familiarizing itself with its surroundings, spreading, mutating, dividing, growing — like the _why _of his affair and the _why _of his decision to pursue a sad ending to a happy story with a man he would try to tear apart using their cyanide love.

"One in seven billion," he repeated to himself, although it was futile now.

His fingers felt weak and drained without warning, like he had lost all control of them, and the card slipped and fell to the ground. His blood, thinned with the diluent, went flying across the cold floor tiles; it was a colour Francis would never be able to get over, no matter the number of times he would see it, for it was tainted with solvent and sickness and Chel and now, HIV.

_I think you chose that one-in-seven-billion, _said Matthew in his beautiful voice.


	5. Chapter Five

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 3708 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Francis starts to fall apart.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Francis didn't have the heart to visit Kiku again — to face concealed disappointment in dark eyes, to have yet another person be ashamed of him — but he did sign up for counseling, the fees for which were thankfully paid for by the government after his situation was explained.

He figured he'd need it.

His counselor is a small Chinese man who looked younger than his years and whose eyes seemingly contained more wisdom than humanly possible. Three times a week he visited Wang Yao, who was more or less a godsend. The man was patient, unassuming, and infinitely insightful. He was, most of all, a good listener.

Francis won't talk much about his HIV. Yao broached the subject a few times, and the man had enough medical background to enlighten his patient a little on what to expect and how to deal, but mostly he left the topic alone and let the Frenchman speak for himself on whatever he so wished, because frankly, Francis would rather not think about his sickness at all.

He already knew about the five stages of grief and he was not dim-witted. Perhaps he was in denial, but at this point he wasn't even sure what over anymore. So he simply avoided talking about the HIV altogether and got snappy and rude whenever Yao tried bringing it up. He talked instead, eagerly, about other matters of concern — his job, Paris, Matthew — things which he could go on forever about, things for which he held a fiery passion no matter whatever sadness was clutching at his chest and refusing to let go.

* * *

During their second week together, Yao told Francis that he shouldn't keep trying to blame himself.

Francis protested, saying, "I haven't made mention of that at all. I'm pretty good, considering. What makes you think I'm blaming myself?"

"I know how conflicted you feel right now," Yao replied calmly, his clipboard set aside as it always was as he leaned closer to the Frenchman with his elbows on his knees. "On the outside, you always try to push your burdens on others because you feel like you have no other choice. But on the inside, you are just as trapped — you hold yourself completely accountable for everything that has happened. You still have your own demons."

"That's not true," Francis replied testily, tapping the arm of his chair.

"You open up to me," Yao said. "Not because we are friends, I suppose; not because you think me easy company. I believe it is because you feel like you have nobody _left_ to open up to — not your friends, not your brother, and especially not Arthur. From how much you are telling me of your home country and your nation's food and your love for clothes and with such enthusiasm, I am willing to wager that even when your marriage had been stable you'd never anyone to tell about this. You have your wrongdoings, but Arthur has his own faults too. So as I was saying, I do not think you should keep trying to shovel all the responsibility for what has happened on yourself."

"Our marriage has never been stable," Francis said, avoiding the issue. He wanted to say, _Don't talk about Arthur like that. What do you know?, _but his tongue got caught in his throat.

Yao gave a small smile. He played mindlessly with the Hello Kitty watchband he always wore, twirling it around and around his thin wrist with ease. "It looks like our time today is up. You have given me much to think about, Francis. Thank you."

* * *

_Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland-Bonnefoy. I am unavailable at the moment, so please leave a message and I will try to get back to you as soon as possible._

Francis was sitting on the edge of Antonio's guest room bed, numb. He was foolish to have thought that Arthur would pick up upon seeing Antonio's number on Caller ID. And he was foolish for thinking that he had even the words to say what he wanted if Arthur _did_ pick up.

Francis wanted to call Matthew again, to pull Antonio out of bed, to be selfish. More than anything, he wanted to talk to Arthur — not to tell him about the HIV, but just to talk, because he'd shut himself off from the world and everyone (except for Yao, that is) and he _needed _someone, if only to hear their odd colloquialisms and jokes and little manners of speech.

Or maybe it was just _that _part of him acting up again — the part that told him, _hey, if you tell him about your disease, he'll feel sorry for you. Remember? Then he'll talk to you even more._

Before he knew it, he was dialing Arthur's number again.

He waited, anxious, phone pressed hard against his ear. He listened to it ring once, twice, and squeezed his eyes shut. If there was anything in the world that he wanted right now, it was this —

"Hello?" came the familiar voice, groggy and tired sounding, the bold English accent shooting straight to Francis' head.

"Arthur," said Francis all too fast, as he held his breath, hoping and praying that the Brit wouldn't immediately hang up.

There was a long pause on the line and Francis' heartbeat quickened as he waited for the response.

"It's 3AM in the morning," said Arthur finally. "I thought it would've been you."

"You picked up anyway," gushed Francis.

"Just to get the phone to stop ringing."

Even through the phone Francis could hear Arthur's smile and the love that came with it — they hadn't been together for four years for nothing. And if there was anything left in the world Francis could hold on to, it'd be that — the fact that despite it all, Arthur still cared for him, in a way. Francis just wasn't sure in which way anymore.

All was quiet for a moment; then, there was a short laugh and Francis felt almost giddy upon hearing the sound. It was his high, it was his drug, and he'd been clean for months and months. "Really stupid, isn't it?"

Francis was treading on thin ice here — he had to watch everything he was going to say, because their conversation was as delicate as a sheet of glass. "Not at all," he smiled, and he was radiating pure but careful joy inside.

It just _always_ had to came back down to this, didn't it? No matter how many times the two tried to avoid it, the fights would never stop, the awful stretching conversations where both parties wanted desperately to make up but were too prideful to say so, or do so, never would.

"How are you?" Francis continued shakily, when Arthur did not.

"I'm alright," admitted Arthur, with a reluctance that seemed all too evident. The horrible realization struck Francis then how fragile their relationship was, and for once the logic in his brain spoke and told him now to hold his tongue because if Arthur knew about the HIV there'd be no chance in hell they'd be able to make their marriage work.

Why, after all, would Arthur stay with him through the repercussions of a mistake Francis had made purposely in order to hurt him?

"I'm glad to hear it," said Francis, and he was.

There was another long lull, and the Frenchman bit down on his bottom lip hard. Upstairs, he could hear Antonio getting out of bed — probably to go to the bathroom.

He wondered when it was that talking to Arthur had become so difficult. Had they really always been like this? How had they even gotten to where they were now?

"You really shouldn't have called," said Arthur.

"I know. I just…wanted to talk to you." For a heartbeat, Francis feared the worst.

"Okay," Arthur responded slowly. "Okay. But — but no talking about, no talking about any of _that _stuff, alright?"

"Okay," agreed Francis, to which he translated into _no begging, no pleading, no asking how you can make it up to me. No asking if we'll ever get back together; no explaining to me your actions with your piteous excuses. No talking about Chel…at all. _

_Just some small talk, because I miss you more than I can ever admit even though you've hurt me, and you miss me more than I can allow even though I know you just want to set things right again. _

_Maybe I know you're hurt too; maybe I just want to watch you suffer. _

That night, under Antonio's covers on Antonio's sheets, Francis kept the phone cradled close to his chest and talked to the man he loved like nothing had ever come between them. He may have even forgotten about their break, their crumbling marriage, his HIV, his failures. He may have even laughed once or twice in the dead of the night, peering out through the window and watching the stars blink, blurry. He may have even been happy, although happiness to him had always come as a delusion, a sort of punishment God liked to inflict on his people in order to make them pay because it was always so short-lived.

But that night, Francis couldn't bring himself to care, because it was Arthur.

And nothing has changed in the past months, not really. Because it was Arthur.

That night was a victory that would not happen again for a while yet, because though they were separated by a thousand miles of pain and anger, neither of the two really knew how to stay away from each other for long. The other's presence was something they _needed_, breathed for, yearned for. It was the glue that'd kept them together all these years despite the multiple breakups and petty arguments — it was the glue that promised Francis hope now, that they could and would somehow learn to move past this.

But this want, in a way, was so unhealthy, because with it how could Francis or Arthur learn independence, learn respect for themselves? How could Arthur learn to forgive Francis, if Francis did not yet know how to forgive himself?

* * *

Francis' health declined rapidly over the next few months following the phone call — not, as he will later find out, because of the HIV but rather because of his own apathy and carelessness. He has horrible migraines that come and go with every other day, and though he was lucky enough to avoid catching high fevers (which he hated ardently because of some traumatizing childhood experiences), he was certainly not lucky enough to bypass the alarming rate at which he was losing weight.

By the time winter reached its climax in late January, Francis had lost twenty pounds and it was beginning to show. He could no longer fit in most of his clothes because they sagged off his bones like an extra layer of droopy skin, and he became well aware of how gaunt his face looked every time he peered in the mirror. Francis, who'd always considered himself beautiful, was absolutely distressed at this. There were periods when he'd stuff his face with food in a fervent attempt to counteract his weight loss, or call off sessions with Yao successive times in a row. The loss of beauty (and sometimes, hair) was beginning to have horrible psychological effects on him; he became more stressed out, more anxious, more depressed.

Francis was no longer in contact with much of his social circle. He cut off all connections with Matthew for fear that the boy who knew him best would be able to notice the difference in him, and he avoided Gilbert as well for fear that the harsh and outspoken German would judge him or force him to find more help. The only person he felt at ease to speak with besides Yao was Antonio and very rarely Arthur, and even then it was not to talk about the changes his body was undergoing. As far as he was concerned, those matters were regarding him and him only, and nobody else needed to be troubled with them considering how much they'd already been troubled, what with lending Francis a place to stay and watching him fall apart.

He was also no longer going to work at all. He simply had not the heart anymore to see his coworkers or face the place he'd once called his second home, and he simply had not the physical strength to, either, since he was constantly tired and fatigued and sleepy. He took up a small room in the basement of an elderly couple who did not bother him and paid his measly rent every month using the money he'd saved up in his emergency bank account. His things were still in the small bag he'd taken with him when Arthur had kicked him out. He hadn't even bothered to unpack them.

He and Arthur talked once every week or so with Francis using a public phone, probably just to make sure the other was alive and kicking. Arthur never asked Francis about his living accommodations or what he was doing with his time, so Francis never bothered to bring it up. The two simply made small talk; it was nothing more than a simple _How are you today? Good. And you? Good. Weather's nice, _before one of them (usually Arthur) hung up after a few minutes of stifling awkwardness.

Francis couldn't complain, though. At the very least he had to have the pleasure of the illusion that they were _trying —_ that with these slow baby steps they'd end up mustering the conversation both of them knew they'd eventually have to have — or else he would have nothing left going for him. He was withering away every hour, and he could feel it in his bones. He was slowly falling apart — jobless, practically homeless, friendless — and if it wasn't for these calls, he'd probably be very much lifeless as well.

Francis was aware of the fact that he should probably be at least a little bit concerned that he was having these suicidal thoughts, but for some reason he could no longer summon the strength for concern either.

Time moved on, the months passed, and life went by without him.

* * *

Somewhere along the way of all this, Francis thought about calling Chel. He wanted to ask her why she hadn't told him or if she knew at all. He wanted to blame her, to give her a piece of his mind, to ruin her like she had ruined him.

At first, he thought that she couldn't have known about the HIV because it was illegal not to disclose information as imperative and life-threatening as that to your bed partners — but the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to dismiss that excuse.

Because it was _Chel_. If there was anyone in the world more lonely than Francis, it would be her. And Francis didn't want to patronize her anymore.

In the end, it wasn't her fault, and it didn't matter anyway. Countless nights were spent with Francis tossing and turning in bed, thinking about pulling on jeans and marching outdoors and using a public telephone to make the call. Sometimes he'd have to roll over and stare at the ceiling and count down slowly from twenty in French because the urge was so tempting and Francis already decided long ago that he wouldn't.

Even not knowing where she was now — what she was doing, how she was faring, if she really did know about the HIV, if she was still spreading the stuff around, if she was up like he was in the middle of the night feeling guilty — even that, the unknown, was killing him. There was nothing worse than not knowing.

It wasn't her fault, not really. It was time for Francis to own up and stop pushing his blame on other people.

By God, he was trying.

But it wasn't easy.

* * *

"Antonio told me you're sick," came Arthur's accusing voice through the phone immediately after the Brit picked up.

Francis was too tired to realize that perhaps Arthur was showing some genuine concern, and too tired to be upset with Antonio. After he'd moved out, he'd stopped talking to the Spanish man at all. "I'm not," he replied uselessly.

"You're a pathetic liar."

"And you, you're nothing but an Englishman," Francis chuckled.

"Shut the hell up," came Arthur's voice, sharp and cruel. "I'm not joking around here, Francis, and I don't want to start a banter. We can't — we can't be like _that_ anymore, not until we've — well, _you_ fix things. I know we have our problems and our differences —"

"Then why won't you let us talk about them?"

"— but once upon a time I _cared_ about you."

And that, that _hurt. _The dull ache in Francis' heart returned full force with those words, and there were just so many things going on that were wrong. So much lack of communication — lack of trust — lack of will to bother. Just a week ago Francis thought that they were getting better because they were talking more, but in the end it turned out they were just right back where they started.

"Once upon a time?" Francis whispered.

When did he stop?

He could only hear steady breathing now, and he tried to follow that pattern with his own lungs to calm himself down. In, out, in, out. Soon they were breathing in sync, quietly. The sound was like thunder.

"I can't do this right now, Francis," Arthur said.

Before Francis could answer, there was a _click _and his time had run out. The Frenchman cursed and dug around his pocket for more spare change, but Arthur never ended up picking up. Francis slumped against the nearest wall, eyes closed, focusing on his breathing once again. The adrenaline rush was gone, and he was once again sleepy, and he was once again just a weak-kneed homeless destitute broken in every which way.

In, out. In, out.

Fucking Antonio.

* * *

It was midnight, March the sixth, and Arthur hasn't picked up for exactly three weeks.

Francis suspected the worst, which was, all at the same time, his best case scenario. Arthur was either too angry or exhausted with him to care, or dead.

Eventually, Francis stopped trying to get in contact with Arthur, and breaks ties with Yao (not by mutual agreement, though; he knew Yao would never go for it. Francis just simply stopped showing up. And Francis was a grown, mature man. There was nothing Yao could do to track him down). He picked up an old habit — chain smoking, and picked up a new routine — nightly drinking in different places all over the city.

So, that was it.

Arthur and Francis, they were done for good.

* * *

The slummy old bar was filled with other men drinking away their sorrows. Some lay passed out on the counter without acquaintances to take them home. Some were sitting, too plainly inebriated, with their hands around an empty bottle and their eyes unblinking. Some were stumbling around, beer bellies bobbing, making loud banging noises and attempting to start fights. There were few women and fewer pretty ones.

The bar's name was _L'Espoir Fait Vivre_, an ironic name that simultaneously did and did not fit it. The bartender, whom Francis immediately headed for, finished cleaning a cup in mechanical movements with a towel dirtier than the glass itself and looked to the newest stranger. Francis' designated driver was a taxi call, if he could remember it.

Part of Francis raised alarm bells at the fact that these regular trips couldn't possibly be good for his health, but what did he care anymore? He was also aware that he was on several medications for his migraines and nightmares and whatnot, but he was sure that that wouldn't make a difference. Or, he wasn't sure. Whatever.

He wanted good, brutal alcohol tonight — he wanted to forget everything that had brought him to this point. He was finished trying to fix things, and finished trying to make amends, and finished being rejected for his efforts time and time again. Finished. Done.

He raised the glass to his lips and chugged it down, eyes wandering around the room. Quite accidentally, they met the gaze of a woman in a bright red dress, and watched her eyebrows shoot upwards. The two held each other's stares for a while before Francis had to pull away with some embarrassing effort — but not before he caught her whisper something to her friends and laugh.

It was only moments later when he felt someone slide up next to him and lean across the counter with ease. "Well, hello," the woman greeted, and Francis allowed himself to admire the view from his seat as she graciously leaned over to provide him a bountiful view of her bosom. "I couldn't help but notice, but, ah, did you and I just have a moment back there?" Her eyes scoured his frame hungrily, her lips teasing a smile.

Francis was surprised by her forwardness, having been caught unawares. "Pardon me?" he asked, momentarily stunned.

The other laughed. "Do you come here often? I haven't seen you around before."

"I'm sorry, are you trying to pick me up?" stammered the Frenchman, unable to think up of anything else to say. He hadn't realized he'd gotten so rusty at social interactions — he remembered, as though it was only a week ago, bringing home crumpled napkins with phone numbers on them and putting them under his pillow just to watch the pile grow higher — because it gratified him knowing he _could _call even though he never _would — _because even when he was with Arthur he'd never been able to restrain himself with the flirting.

"I could be." The woman raised her glass to her lips and took a sip, showing a single row of stunning white teeth before putting the glass back down with controlled carefulness. Francis watched her every move, almost entranced. Since when had women been able to move with such perfection? "I mean, you're kind of cute for a loner. How 'bout I buy you another drink and you think about it?" And with that, she winkedat him before snapping her fingers at the bartender.

Francis almost declined. He snapped himself out of his trance instead, giving the woman the best smile he could muster before accepting the drink she passed him. _You probably shouldn't have any more tonight_, came the annoying voice in the back of his mind once more, but Francis suspected that he was dead to the world now anyway.

"Francis Bonnefoy," he introduced himself, feeling his French charm slowly ease itself into play as night fell outside.


	6. Chapter Six

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 6245 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Francis meets Chel and makes a trip down to the Mirabeau bridge.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Nobody knew it, but Francis still had with him every single number from every single woman he'd ever picked up lying somewhere at the bottom of his suitcase, and they served more of a purpose than just to remind him of what he once used to be — a flirt, a charmer, an utter heartbreaker. They were assurances. Francis liked knowing that he was able to have whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

It was a little pathetic.

Frequent sex had always been a regular to him, and living without it was harder than he'd expected at first. It must have been longer than he thought, though, because before he knew it he and the woman were drunk out of their minds and he was way out of his sober comfort zone (and his sober comfort zone could stretch rather far). He'd meant only to go for a number to add to his collection and to entice his company with a few choice promises, like he always did. But tonight, he felt different — spontaneous, you could say — and most of all, it really _had _been far too long.

The two left the bar in a hurry, not to find a taxi but to get closer to each other without the stares of the other bar occupants. In rough movements, so unlike him, Francis pushed the lady (whose name he's forgotten) up against the wall on the side of the building and ran a hand through her thick, glossy hair, pulling and tangling his fingers in them. He was a man of sex, of sweet, loving passion. He didn't realize how much he'd missed it until he had the woman pressed up against him with her hands feeling up his shirt.

He kissed down her neck, not even bothering with her lips, and closed his eyes. His gasps turned ragged, his sighs harsh, as his fingers moved expertly to fiddle with the back of the woman's dress. He could have taken her right then, right there, if she'd let him — and she did, if the way her body was rolling against his was anything to go by. She grabbed at his arms first, then moved to entwine around his torso as the two pressed and fit their chests together in a desperate attempt to remove all distance between them.

All Francis could hear in his right ear was the sound of breathy moaning. In a way, he was turned on by it — by the prospect of sharing intimacy with a strange person whom he did not know in this dark alleyway out in the public eye, by the prospect of no-strings-attached, the one-night stand he hasn't had since he and Chel (and before that, he and Arthur).

In another, he found the moan strange, because he wasn't familiar with it and that made it feel out of place, _wrong_.

The woman moaned again, only this time she moaned his name, once, against his shoulder.

Francis, who had his lips locked against her throat by this point, almost about to move to pin her wrists above her head, stopped short at that.

"What is it?" panted the other through uneven breaths as he pulled away.

Francis' head began to spin, and he couldn't concentrate on forming words. He was beginning to see doubles. He didn't know why he'd stopped — it felt _good_ — just that this — what he was doing now — was really wrong for some reason, even though he didn't know why.

The woman gave up on waiting for an answer and attacked his lower neck with her mouth, spinning their bodies so that it was Francis with his back against the wall. The Frenchman was unresponsive, hands dropping limp at his side, gaze clouded and blurred.

"What?" the woman growled as she unlocked herself from him for a brief moment at Francis' lack of reaction.

"Am I drunk?" asked Francis, blinking.

"I would think so," hummed she, giving a little giggle. "I think we've _both _had _too _much to drink. But, you know what? I…" and then she slipped a little, her heels giving way, and Francis had to catch her underneath her arms and hold on to her tightly so that she wouldn't fall. "Oops," she laughed, standing on the very tips of her shoes to place her lips right next to his right ear. "I…don't want to stop," she breathed, her breath tickling Francis' skin, before flicking out her tongue to touch the tip of his earlobe.

"I shouldn't be here," Francis stammered, though he didn't quite know why. His own tongue felt fuzzy and his stomach was turning over, its watery contents moving back and forth inside of him. He wanted to throw up again, throw it all up. Preferably on this nice lady here, whom just a minute ago he had his face all over. He couldn't put his finger on it, but suddenly he was no longer aroused and just wanted to leave.

"You said it," laughed the woman. "Let's get out of here."

"No," said Francis with surprising strength as he pushed his company away gently by her arms. "I'm not…I can't."

For the first time that make-out session, their eyes met. "There's someone else, isn't there?" asked the woman, slowly, her cheeks flushed.

Francis shook his head. "No. No one."

She gave another short laugh, leaning her forehead against Francis' chest. "Is it me, then?" she asked, threading her fingers gently through Francis' hair before taking a step back.

"It's not you, dear," smiled the Frenchman. Then, because he felt like he owed her an apology for leading her on, he added simply, "I'm sorry." But by the time the words left his lips, he was slumped against the wall alone with only the cool wind against his hot skin for a companion and the woman was gone.

* * *

Francis didn't know how long he stood there for, battling the pounding in his head and wondering what the hell had just transpired. There was that faint musing he kept repeating to himself, the one that told him he'd almost committed the same crime he'd once lost his entire life over — that he was so close, that he'd gone in way too far. But it was difficult to listen to that thought when he was feeling so whoozy.

It wasn't until later, as he watched drunk men pile themselves out of the bar from the side of the building, that he truly realized what he could have done — although it was still a struggle to put what exactly he _had _done in words. It occurred to him that there was now a very real, very dangerous chance that he could've passed his HIV on to another.

He had a responsibility now, in a way. And he'd let himself go, for a moment. More than a moment.

It would only be fair, though, to do to another what the universe had done to him. If someone asked for your jacket, you give it to him but request he pay interest. If someone slapped you in the face, you tackle him to the ground and pound his nose into the pavement. That was just the way the world worked.

He wondered if this was how Chel felt.

"Fucking hell! Merde!" Francis swore suddenly, smashing his fist against the brick. "_FUCK!_" He cursed again and again as he alternated between hitting and kicking the wall over and over and over, kicking until he could feel his feet throb with pain and punching until he could see the skin over his knuckles split and drool blood down his arms. He felt the frustration in his body, the arousal that was suddenly there again like it'd always been there, the hollowness in his chest as he realized that there was just him now because he couldn't even accept physical comfort the way he used to.

"Fuck," Francis whispered, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

He fell to gross sobbing as he slid down and crumpled to the ground, curling into a tight mass of whimpering flesh. He couldn't remember how long he knelt there, pounding his forehead against the cement until dirt and blood dribbled into his eyes and mixed with his salty tears. He felt insane, wildly out of control, unaware of the movements his own body was forcing upon him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried as hard as this — had it been when Arthur left? How about ten years back, when he first heard of his mother's suicide just as he was preparing to leave Marseille for school? How about even further back, when he'd learned that he was never to see the boy with the jade-coloured eyes ever again because that boy was leaving, going home to the other side of the world? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember.

* * *

Francis felt warm hands running over his scalp. He looked up through swimming eyes to see a beautiful young woman, all wavy brown-haired and bright-gentle-eyed, with a smile that could win thousands. There were ribbons in her hair and her skin was a gentle brown-coconut colour, her short blue jacket the shade of the royal night blue skies of France's countrysides. The stranger took his hands in hers, her fingers closing over his, helping him up as he continued to cry into his own chest.

Francis remembered only blurry fragments of the rest of the night. He remembered a soothing voice and clambering into a taxi and throwing up on the streets after they exited it with the same soft hands holding back his hair. He remembered being tired down to his element and yet being unable to sleep due to the burning at the back of his throat from the vomit, the rocking in his head, the spinning of the room, the acid in his stomach, the unfamiliarity of the apartment in which he had been led. The most prominent passing memory he remembered, though, is being shown to a chair, being sat in front of a mirror, as someone shaved his shaggy face and draped a towel over his shoulders and cut off all his hair. He remembered holding the blond wisps that fell into his fingers and thinking that they felt somewhat like feathers.

He remembered, finally, falling on the couch and closing his eyes to a merciful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was at the crack of dawn when Francis awoke. He had no hangover, but he was extremely disoriented. For a moment, he thought that he was back at Arthur's, for he imagined the hum of the heater, the sound of running water as Arthur was getting ready for work — and for a moment, he was transported back six months ago when things had been alright.

Francis got up slowly. He blinked his eyes blearily and looked around — the apartment was void of any furniture — and saw that he was still in his previous night's clothes.

Chel took at least an hour to shower every morning, and Francis decided to take the opportunity to make her breakfast. He shuffled around her kitchen slowly, his hands moving with familiar practice. He knew all of Chel's favourite foods and how she liked to take her morning coffee. He knew because they'd spent more than one night together before, because she was his one big guilty spot that would always be on his conscience, because they were alike in a million more ways than he and Arthur ever was. Because if Matthew was right and there existed an infinite number of universes, and if Matthew was wrong and Francis and Arthur were not together in every one of them, then in that one where they are not Francis would be in love with Chel and they would be living together, happily married, HIV-free with two and a half children conceived by their own means. That, at least, is what Francis believed.

Chel's kitchen was hardly something that could be counted as a kitchen. There were no utensils, and the plates were dirty, and there was hardly any food in the refrigerator, so Francis had to improvise. He noticed that there was, lying on the kitchen counter against the wall, a single photograph, and he picked it up. Chel's never looked happier in it. She was with a man, fair haired and blue-eyed with a five-o'-clock shadow. She had a baby cradled in her arms, and she wasn't looking at the camera, though the man was. The baby, Francis could tell, had her father's eyes. The picture looked like it's been folded and opened several times, its edges crinkled and water-worn.

If Francis didn't know any better, he would have called her _pathetic_.

He still didn't know how to feel now that he was here. Sure, deep inside him he knew that he didn't blame her — but that was on the assumption that he'd never have to see her again. Now that he was in her apartment, she was entirely at his mercy — he could raid her things, steal whatever money she had, completely stab her in the back. He wondered if he should.

Francis ran a hand through his short hair and set the picture down. He put the eggs and toast on the kitchen table and grabbed a napkin and wrote something on it quickly with pen. He left it, neatly folded, next to the plate of food and managed to slip out the door quietly just as he heard the shower turn off.

_Take care of yourself, Michelle. _

Finding his way out of the apartment and walking through the cold streets, Francis wondered, truly wondered, if he forgave Chel. He looked back only once, and managed to see her standing at her bedroom window, curtains drawn, a bath towel crumbled around her toes. They gave a small wave to each other, and the way the French morning sun hits her makes her small and skinny and naked frame look rather beautiful.

He knew, with some peace of mind as he turned a corner, that he had.

* * *

Francis exhaled, watching the smoke drift from between his lips and disappear in the atmosphere. He wondered if he should call someone – anyone, really – to help him sort _this_ out.

Francis turned his head, looking to the little girl on the edge of his bed. She was sitting there stoically with an emotionless look in her eyes that met his own with startling precision. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head tilted downward a bit, her lips moving ever so slightly with no sound coming out of them. Her dress was in tatters; it would have been pure white only it was stained with tracks of mud and dirt and here and there a patch of dried blood. There were twigs in her blonde hair and her arms were so thin that her bones were visible and her elbows were jutting outward.

Francis took another inhale from his cigarette, never taking his eyes off the girl as he mulled over his thoughts. The past few weeks he'd been drinking, smoking, eating unhealthily, and shooting himself with a dose of heroin whenever he needed the high — but he felt amazing. Maybe his body was just becoming used to all the coping methods he used and maybe those methods were actually _helping _him recover rather than hindering. It didn't matter. Francis no longer felt sick anymore. He even stopped taking his medication.

There was just this one problem: the little girl, who had started to follow him around ever since he had that first needle.

Whenever he turned around, there she'd be, sitting quietly with her hands clasped and a giant smile plastered in a V-shape on her face, although her brows were furrowed and it looked like she was deeply frowning. The edges of her lips were always moving, even though she was grinning. She never spoke to him, never looked away from him, and never did anything other than go wherever he went.

Francis was, to say the least, a little troubled by her. There was just something _disturbing_ about her presence that he couldn't put his finger on – it might have been her freakish face, or the way she followed him around the streets in a bloody dress and nobody seemed to pay attention. Perhaps she's always been there. Perhaps he's forgotten. He suspected that she was a manifestation of his mind, but how could she be, when he was perfectly fine?

Francis finally made a decision.

He needed _help_.

* * *

He stood up to move and was shaken slightly when he saw the girl immediately jump up to follow him. He shivered, bundling himself up in his coat and putting out his cigarette. Every day the girl's presence grew more ominous – now he was waking daily to find her just two feet away from his face, staring at him, her dress a little bloodier.

Francis strode out onto the street, trembling all the while as he heard the _tap-tap-tap _of prim shoes behind him. When he looked back, there she was, smiling with her lips twisted in a way physically impossible for anyone else and frowning with her eyes; he rubbed at his own and continued on.

When he reached a public phone booth, he immediately tried to shut out the girl with the door so that he could have at least a little bit of privacy, but she ended up appearing directly next to him. She was only up to his elbow in height but she seemed more than threatening standing a foot away from him. Francis shuddered again and reached up to punch in the numbers, doing his best to ignore his company.

"Hello?"

"Matthew?"

"_Francis?_" Francis could hear the incredulity in his brother's voice. "Is that you?"

"Yes, yes –"

"Do you have any idea what you've been _doing _to us? Do you know what today is? It's _April, _Francis, near-end. I called Antonio and he said that you disappeared off the face of the earth for _months_. And Gilbert – he had no idea either, and Arthur – well, Arthur, he didn't really know either. Everyone – everyone else has been _so worried_. If it wasn't for the fact that Arthur'd said he'd talked to you just a month or so ago and that you just wanted to be left alone, I would've called the police. _Where have you been?_"

"Matthew," Francis said, breath quickening as he continued to look at the girl. He was starting to feel claustrophobic – she took up all of the space, here, and he was backed in a corner as he watched her shuffle towards him with terrifying speed. She'd never – _never_ tried to get so close to him before in all the time that Francis has seen her – she's always kept her distance. What was changing now? "It's good to hear your voice again," he said, because it truly was.

"Francis, what's going on? What happened to you? You sound sick."

"I – I don't know. I'm seeing things, I think. I just, I wanted to call –"

"You're _seeing _things?"

"Probably a ghost," Francis nodded his head.

"Have you been drinking?" came the accusing tone.

"I – yes, but it's nothing like that. I'm not drunk."

"Are you stoned?"

"I – _no!_ Of course not. I'm clean. I just – I think, I _think _I'm seeing things."

Heavy silence perforated the line. "Why did you call me, Francis?"

Francis sighed. The girl was but a few inches from him now, though she didn't move any farther than that. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I cut myself off from everyone, but it's harder with you and Arthur. I've been so out of it. I need help." He shrugged his shoulders feebly. "Matthew, I don't know where my life is going anymore. I haven't spoken to a single soul for months, and I've been drinking and smoking and I think I'm ill – _really _ill. And I'm seeing things, things I shouldn't be seeing. I don't think I can take any of this anymore."

"I'm coming to visit you," said Matthew softly. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you earlier. I – I didn't know how bad it was. Antonio mentioned a fight, and I thought, I thought you were simply coping. And, well, we haven't been very close these past few years – not like we used to be, so I figured, well. That it wasn't any of my business or anything. But I'll take care of you – don't worry. We'll get through your whole Arthur thing together, alright? Is that what this is about – Arthur?"

"Do you remember the last time I called you, on Christmas Eve?"

"Oh."

"Yes."

"You're depressed." It was no longer an accusation, nor was it a question; it was a matter-of-fact statement.

"To be honest? I'm not sure. But I know that I think I'm losing my grip on reality," Francis joked weakly. "I thought I could do this but I _can't_."

"Right. Right, okay. Right. Okay. Who are you staying with?"

"An old couple. Here –" Francis gave his address, and tried to calm himself down. "You'll be over soon, right?" he asked hopefully.

"Well, maybe you should come stay with us instead," Matthew said slowly.

"Us?"

"Alfred and I. We're roommates, remember? Well, at least until – never mind. We'd be glad to have you. We have an extra room and everything. It's just, we can help you better if you're here."

"I can't," choked Francis, watching the girl's smile stretch and widen.

"Why not?"

"I can't leave."

"What do you mean, you can't leave?"

He meant that he didn't want to burden Matthew or Alfred. He meant that he didn't want his little brother to see how far he's fallen, how bad he is, and to watch him wander around in his house in a vegetable-like state. He meant that he didn't want to be around Alfred, the stranger whom he hardly knew, and just needed to be with Matthew.

He meant that he was losing his mind, going insane, that he couldn't tell the difference between reality and fiction anymore and he wasn't really sure if the girl was just a reflection of his mind or not. He meant that if he tried to escape he was sure she would hunt him down and kill him.

The girl was starting to make gesturing motions with her hand now, as if she was telling Francis to hand over the phone. He did, trying to still it in his hand as he passed it over. He dropped it in her palm, and it fell right through it and clattered against the glass wall.

Francis felt relief course through him for a single moment. She wasn't real.

Francis then felt terror follow right after. _She wasn't real_.

"Francis? Hello? Hello?" came the voice from the phone as Francis slammed open the booth door and ran.

* * *

The demon-child was gone. Standing here, on this familiar old bridge, Francis could almost think rationally; he could not for the life of him remember her much at all anymore. Had she just been a hallucination he'd been conjuring all this time? When had she first appeared, how did she become such a regular presence in his life? Was this kind of thing normal for people with HIV? Or even depression? Or was her presence not even a consequence of HIV, but rather because of his substance abuse?

Francis was panting, leaning his elbows on the railing with his head thrown back so that it hung over the expanse of water. He had run like a madman through the streets, pushing past strangers and knocking over carts and strollers, run without a single glance back to see if the demon-child was still following him, run purposelessly and without destination with Matthew's final words echoing in his skull. Now he felt as though his lungs were being ripped out of his chest; it hurt to breathe, and he had to take great huge gasping breaths in order to fill himself with heavenly air. Night had already fallen.

There was nobody else on the bridge except for him and a few passing cars, and thank God for that. In the distance, a bugle told Francis that there were a few small ships headed towards the bridge, and on either side of him Paris was slowly putting herself to sleep. All her lights were being lit like small, flickering candles, and Francis thought that she was beautiful illuminated like this at nighttime.

The Mirabeau bridge was one of thirty-seven bridges built over the Seine River located in Paris, and it was far from one of the most beautiful. In fact, it was the disgusting yellow-green colour of sulphur and it was old as dirt. And compared to some bridges like the Pont des Arts or the Pont de l'Archvêché, considered some of the greatest romantic spots in the city, or the Pont Alexandre III that was lined with its gorgeous lamps, the Mirabeau bridge could hardly match up.

But Francis had grown to adore this bridge, he and Arthur both. After all, it was here where they'd commonly met up whenever they could spare some free time in the busy days of attending college since they were studying completely different majors and didn't have a single class with each other. It'd been here where Arthur had stood with jeans frayed at the fringe and wet from the knees down, where he had chatted with Francis amiably about how much he wanted to bash his 18th century French literature teacher's head in with a burnt scone and Francis had listened contently thinking about how much he loved the guy. It'd been here where they'd fought numerous times, even broken up once, but reconciled again.

Sometimes when they met Francis would bring flowers. He didn't really know where Arthur put them, but he had faith that they weren't thrown away upon parting because he knew that the Brit was a romantic at heart. He could still remember the first time Arthur brought _him_ flowers for a change, and he had made the fatal mistake of making fun of him for it. Since then, Arthur had never repeated the gesture. Francis had suspected that the other just scared easily; a marriage and some years later he could easily reaffirm that thought.

The thought that there was still hope between him and Arthur was so easy to imagine, and it was so easy to forget that they'd already tried and nothing had worked and it'd been such a terribly long time since the two had last spoken. Here on the bridge, it was so easy to forget _everything_. It was easy to forget why he even _cared_ in the first place. Arthur, Matthew, Antonio, Gilbert — all were lost cases, people whose faces he could hardly summon or remember. The whole plan was laid out in plain view in front of him, and there was nothing to add. All that really mattered were the memories he and Arthur had created here together long ago; in those memories, Arthur loved him still. All he had to do was let go.

In the present, Francis turned around so that he was facing the river and tapped his fingernails on the railing. It was still chilly out and he was poorly dressed and he'd been running around all day. His short hair had become stiff and cold and his ears and neck were chilled to the bone as they were completely unprotected. He shivered, teeth chattering, bare hands red as though he'd been burnt severely.

The Frenchman yawned tiredly. He thought that he could see the Eiffel Tower from here in all its glory, lit up with a thousand lights that made it appear on fire; he blinked lazily at it. It almost startled him to realize how long ago the demon-child had left him be; he'd been here for hours already. Somehow, he imagined the bridge protecting him, keeping him safe. Here, he could be completely content. He was almost euphoric; he could no longer feel the cold, only warmth seeping through his veins and heating his fingers. It was like his first trip to Disney World when he'd been six or seven years old, cradled in the arms of his mother as they both watched the fireworks above Cinderella's castle. No wrong could have touched him then.

The colours of the lights were beginning to blend in with each other; Francis blinked a few times, wondering why his vision was going blurry, but the colours wouldn't go away. He felt an inexplicable feeling crawl up the base of his spine, and he was suddenly very hot, very giddy inside.

Here, he was sure he was free, away from his guilt and his demons and his haunts. Here, he could enshroud himself in the past forever, in a time before Arthur had become something utterly unobtainable. All he could think of was Disney World and his mother, and then he was fast forwarding through his life and watching all his memories play themselves out as easily and as real as though he was watching television.

There was growing up in Marseille with Matthew and meeting the jade-eyed boy on the shores of the Mediterranean and there was meeting his half-sister for the first time and growing to love her. There was playing dress-up in girl's clothes and wondering if there was something wrong with him; there was realizing that he was a little different from other people but that was alright. There was the jade-eyed boy coming to see him in his dreams again and again until there came a point where Francis couldn't distinguish between the words he had actually heard come from the boy's mouth and the words he imagined hearing in those nightly visits.

There was moving away to the city of lights to live out his dream when he turned eighteen, looking down to see Matthew still a head shorter than him clutching at his bag and begging him not to leave right before he boarded the plane because if he was leaving then he would be running away and leaving Matthew mother-less and brother-less. There was meeting Antonio and Gilbert and getting drunk for the first time and failing his first test in a subject he believed he was a genius in and crying alone on the bathroom floor after a party, gutting his wrists like he would a fish and watching the blood drip down the bathtub and smear the whiteness away.

There was meeting the jade-eyed boy in reality once more. It wasn't love at first sight, it couldn't be because they'd already seen each other before, but the boy didn't remember him and that had broken his heart. But then there was finding himself when he wooed the other anyway, growing more confident and self-assured and daring and flirtatious and there was storing away the memory of his mother's death back in the hidden realms of his mind and reuniting with Matthew. There was growing to love his work and growing to love this city and growing to love this bridge, this spot, and growing addicted to loving a certain kind of pain and happiness that came and went with loving Arthur.

There was hurt there, and there was joy, and Francis had always adored a good measure of both. This he could deal with, this he could find the measure of his worth from, this he could use to discover more of himself. What he was dealing with _now_ — the almost constant sadness and the consuming depth of his inner monsters and the madness that he felt was slowly taking over his brain by conjuring him images of certain white-dressed little girls to haunt his wake — that, that he could die for, but never live with.

Francis hummed the Mirabeau song, but he could hardly hear it over the hollowness in his ears. He continued to hum it regardless, thinking about what it had taken him to get here, about what he had gone through and what he had had to deal with. About being fastened, rather accidentally, to his love for Arthur, and forgetting himself in consequence. That had been a fatal mistake he would regret even more so than Chel. But then again, now that he thought about it, he no longer regretted Chel; he only regretted that things had gone the way they did.

_But you have a choice even now, you know_, said a voice Francis imagined belonged to the little demon girl, only it was sweet and kind and didn't sound like it could pass through such a filthy mouth. He looked around for the girl, but realized he couldn't see a thing anymore. The scope of his sight had turned rather lurid, which was frightening because now it seemed as though the colours were turning on him. The cold was once again returning to his limbs, and that shocked him as much as the colours did. He had somehow managed to pull himself out of reality for a single moment in the cold and engage himself in the past, but now the present was returning once more and he didn't — he didn't want that.

Francis was seeing things now. The ghosts of his troubled past were drifting through him, engulfing him whole. _Oh, you, you, you_, they breathed through lipless mouths that did not move; Francis wanted to lose himself in his past here, in the interstitial matrix of otherworldliness that cased and separated reality and sleep, wanted to forge a pavement of uncreated calm from within the sanity of his soul and paint with the colours that approached him now and use them to smear into existence the syndrome that had begot his harsh, enduring wounds as if hoping to lose himself in the smothers.

He was floating between slates of muted grey, and all he could hear was _You still have a choice_, echoed by a laughing voice. _Francis Bonnefoy, you've always had the choice. _

_That's right_, mused Francis. _I can choose to escape. There was always an escape route. I've just forgotten it_. For it is so strange, Francis mused, that we should enter a world built upon the failure of its inhabitants and yet struggle every day to cling to it anyway because we imagine it to be our only salvation. That there isn't anything yonder, that all that lies in the abyss is the unknown. That death is the coward's way out.

But Francis didn't see it that way; at least not anymore. Because he'd been falling and falling the moment he met Arthur and he'd finally hit rock bottom; this was his rock bottom. He would take the unknown, if it provided even the slimmest of a chance that it was better than the hell he was living now.

He had never considered this ending before, not when he'd been kicked out of the apartment, not when he'd found out he had a sickness that would quickly destroy him, not when he'd drowned himself in alcohol and woken up with patches in his memory. And not even when the demon-girl showed up. Although she disturbed him, she brought along some measure of solace and peace that comforted him as well because her presence meant that he was already going mad, and insane men were not bothered by the same things that sane men were.

Death was not the coward's way out. It was his only way out, and he was nothing but brave to endeavour it, because if he couldn't make the attempt then he'd be forced to live with the repercussions, and he'd already lived the repercussions and he'd suffered. And this, _this_ was his salvation.

Francis was hardly realizing what he was doing when he gripped the railings tight and threw his legs over it. With just the release of his clenched hands, he could plummet straight into the river and be done with it all. He took a deep breath; the colours and the cold and the wind was harassing him even more now, as if they were chanting _Do it, do it, do it!_ And Francis released the breath he was holding.

There was a gentle tap on his shoulder. Through the vivid patches of yellow and searing white, Francis discerned the shape of the demon-girl. So she'd finally caught up to him, he thought with some relief. Hello, he wanted to say. A little late to the party.

He thought the girl looked a little oddly like someone he knew. It was a subtle observation, something he'd never noticed before — and especially shouldn't now considering how he could hardly even see. He squinted his eyes against the biting chill, looking a little harder. _Oh_, he realized finally, and smiled._ That is my mother. I've been conjuring an image of my mother in her youth this entire time. _

The demon-child smiled, and pushed him hard. Francis' hands released their hold, and the water below rushed up to meet him as he fell once again.

End Part I


	7. Chapter Seven

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 5215 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Francis wakes up in a white room, and tells Arthur everything.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

When Francis cracked open his eyes, he was occupying a space in a bleached-white room with walls that seemed to extend onward and onward. There was no ceiling in sight. Neither was there any sort of terrain below; he was simply free-floating. There.

He could almost say that he recognized the expanse of the room, as if it had about it a quality that was familiar to him. But the sensation he was encountering wasn't coming from the room, apparently — it was coming from the boy that materialized right then in front of him. With his sudden appearance, Francis felt immediately assured, although he couldn't remember ever having seen him before.

The boy, or the figure, was difficult to focus upon. Every time Francis tried to adjust his attention on him, a ringing noise would reverberate within the hollow of his skull — and he would have to turn away. If one was to ask Francis later to describe the other, Francis would be unable to respond, for he simply did not know. But he could be certain of one thing — that the boy's eyes were very, very green.

"I know you," he said suddenly, because he did, although he did not know how. It was like he had loved this boy sometime ago, in another place, another dimension.

"I know you," the boy echoed back.

Francis smiled briefly, slowly and deliberately lifting his hand and reaching for the smaller figure, fingers splayed open wide. The other took the hint and also raised his hand, and the tips of their fingers brushed.

"You're Arthur." Francis laughed. "You're the Arthur I met the very first time, back in Marseille. Your family had come to visit. We played together. I forgot your name. I fell in love with you."

Arthur smiled, a small mournful smile that distressed him. It was almost condescending, the kind you would give your friend when you found something particularly ironic, or somewhat funny, when it should not be; the sympathetic kind, the kind that ached and could stay inside your mind for weeks on end; the kind a person old beyond their years could give upon reminiscence.

"We met again in Paris," continued he. "We were both drawn there because we were both drawn to each other. That's what a soul mate is, you know. Matthew said that it is improbable for them to meet, and that it is inevitable that they find others in order to stifle their oppressive loneliness, but perhaps he was wrong. I can only ever be for you."

The jade-eyed boy said nothing.

"It was your eyes," continued Francis. "Your eyes. I forgot your face, I forgot everything about you even when you came back to haunt me, but not your eyes.

"When you told me you didn't remember me, it broke me."

"How can you be so sure that was me?" said Arthur. His voice was soft and tender.

"Arthur," laughed Francis. "You may as well ask the moon how she can be so sure she must follow, or the sun how she can be so sure she must burn."

"You don't know me," said Arthur. "You don't know me at all."

"I love you," said Francis, letting the other's fingers fall in the spaces between his own. "Isn't that enough?"

The jade-eyed boy of youth dropped his gaze for a second, the smile never leaving his face. Francis strove to study it, to imprint in his mind every particular of the memory that had fallen astray, but was unsuccessful each time for somehow he could never gaze upon it long enough to extract its projection for his own. Arthur, catching Francis' imploring looks, reached up and cupped his chin with an unwavering hand. His palm was layered with the tell-tale signs of childhood — the baby fat, the lack of tough keratin, the strange coolness.

"You've immortalized me," said Arthur. "I'm not going anywhere. You have all the time you need to see me."

Francis put his own free hand over the one on his face and closed his eyes, lowering his head so that his hair fell around his cheeks; the golden locks, he noticed, had become long again. This, this level of intimacy between himself and a child should have scared him, but it didn't.

"Good," he sighed into the hand. "Don't leave me again."

"You, you, you," said Arthur, lips widening so that a row of baby teeth showed. "It's always about you, isn't it? Try thinking about other people for once."

Francis' eyes opened. "What would you have me do?" he asked, dropping his voice so that it was no more than a hoarse mumble. "I'll do anything to prove myself to you, to show you how much I love you."

Francis withdrew then, because his cheeks had all at once become very hot. When he could afford to look again, the boy in front of him had not a trace of the features that had made him so distinctly familiar. All Francis could see was just another green-eyed boy. The eyes were as beautiful as they always were. But they were empty.

And Francis had to wonder who the boy he had met by the Mediterranean was, if he was not Arthur.

* * *

Francis awoke, drifting back into the conscious world at his leisure. When he did come to full awareness, he noticed he was once again in a white room — and he thought for a moment that perhaps he had never left the other one — but with another blink of the eyes and the clearing of his field of vision he managed to perceive that there were bold differences between the two.

In this reality, the walls were finite. In the middle where they met there hung a ceiling fan that crooned pleasantly with every gyration. Francis was no longer hovering upright, but lying down, and beneath him he could feel the compliant suppleness of a bed and the bunches of smooth sheets that curled around his thin hips. His upper body was supported by a few tiers of stacked pillows, so that he was almost halfway sitting straight. His right hand felt warmer than his left, and Francis sat there for a moment, merely relishing that warmth. He wondered if the green-eyed boy from Marseille who may or may not be Arthur had followed him here.

He finally plucked up the courage to look to see the hand clasped around his own. It was attached to the arm of a sleeping man, whose face was buried in the crook of the elbow of his other arm, with disheveled hair sticking up in all directions. Francis could hardly suppress a relieved sigh.

He didn't wake Arthur — the real Arthur — for a lengthy period of time; he just sat there, taking in his surroundings and looking at his — dare he say it? — husband. Arthur had grown skinner since the last time Francis had last seen him — how many months ago now? — but not quite as skinny as Francis himself. The Brit was wearing one of his homely plaid grey sweater vests and some old black trousers that Francis remembered from college. He was sitting on a chair pulled up next to the bed, his torso leaning an uncomfortable distance towards Francis, and he was snoring lightly.

Francis tugged his hand out of Arthur's and ran his fingers through the bed hair. He hummed through his nose a made-up tune and tried to recollect in his mind the last thing that had happened to him. There was calling Matthew, and frenziedly running through the streets of Paris, but that was all. He couldn't remember why he had called Matthew or what had caused him to run. He thought that he might have said something dense, revealed something he shouldn't have to his brother, but he wasn't sure.

When Francis' thumb snagged on a knot in the hair, Arthur yanked his head backwards on a knee-jerk reaction and Francis immediately withdrew his hand. Their eyes met almost simultaneously, both pairs wide and unblinking. Seconds ticked by like this, with Francis' hand frozen in midair and Arthur's hair even more disorganized than it was before.

"You're awake," said Arthur finally, as though he had to establish that fact first.

"Yes," responded Francis.

Arthur sheepishly drew himself back to sit up properly, rustling the hospital sheets as he did so. He folded his hands neatly one on top of the other in his lap, never looking away from the Frenchman.

"You cut your hair," accused Arthur.

"Yes," responded Francis, pinching his lips together. He dared not tell him that he'd paid a visit to Chel to do so. "Um."

Neither said anything. Six, seven seconds went by. A million thoughts buzzed around Francis' head. When was the last time he'd gone to work? When was the last time he'd talked to Antonio or Gilbert? What happened to Matthew? Why was he, Francis, in a hospital in the first place? And more importantly, why was Arthur here as well? Why was Arthur here, if he didn't care?

"What happened?" he finally decided.

Arthur frowned. "Don't you remember?"

"No," he said, right as he did begin to remember. He had jumped off the Mirabeau bridge. He had attempted to commit suicide; there was the demon-child — one that looked like his mother — and she had pushed him. But those ideas seemed ludicrous. Sane men did not hallucinate images of their youthful mothers pushing their children to their deaths. Sane men did not jump the way he did, full of happiness and colour and fervency. He'd never wanted to die, even having known that his life was falling apart. He wasn't depressed or sad or sick. Why had he done it? What had happened?

"You tried committing suicide," said Arthur softly, affirming Francis' doubtful thoughts. "You — you jumped, sometime in the morning yesterday."

"Morning?"

Arthur nodded, throat moving as he swallowed. "A lot of people saw you do it. They managed to pull you out only after you'd fallen unconscious. You rode the river a long way."

"I could have sworn it was nighttime," said Francis, which was apparently the wrong thing to say.

Arthur's eyes blazed. "What does that even matter? You shouldn't have done it at all," he said, voice rising a little. "You're such a bloody fucking idiot. What's wrong with you?"

Francis moved his hands to grip his own hair, shaking his head slightly. "You did this to me," he accused Arthur. "Why did you do this to me?"

"What the hell do you mean?" demanded Arthur, jumping to his feet and knocking his chair over backwards.

"I hadn't meant to jump!" wailed Francis, shaking his head vigorously now. "I hadn't ever meant to try killing myself. It was you — it was _all you_."

He noticed that Arthur was barely swallowing anger now, eyes turning red and fists clenching and unclenching. "You _cheated_, you goddamn bastard. You had an affair with Chel! You're a married man, and you cheated on me! Do you have any idea how worried I was after Matthew called me - and then later when the hospital called to tell me that you'd almost drowned? It took me an hour to drive here, Francis, and I kept thinking, _He might be dead by the time I get there. He might already be dead, and it'll be on me_. And I was thinking about what I'd done to deserve your hatred - to deserve you sleeping around - and then to deserve you dying on me, and I was scared, Francis, I was -"

"Arthur, stop," said Francis, because although he was confused and lost and angry, he was most of all tired and he did not want to fight. Arthur, to his credit, did calm down a little.

He pulled his chair back up and took Francis' hands again, nodding all the while, breathing hard.

"Okay. Okay. Okay, sorry. Uh — the nurses said you needed to rest. We'll — we can talk about _that_ later. Everything, I mean. Sorry."

Francis looked away, turning his head to face a window on his left. They were pretty high up, probably on the sixth or seventh floor. Below, the Parisians of France hustled around each other, oblivious to the drama that was Francis' life. The tell-tale signs of spring were showing, and the roads were pristine and black and it was raining slightly and Francis took that as a sign that perhaps winter was finally starting to draw to a close.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, daring not to look at Arthur.

"I know." Arthur was still breathing hard.

"We have a lot of problems," Francis said, bunching closed his eyes and trying to gulp the tears away. He couldn't look at Arthur, not like this.

Goddamn it, what was wrong with them? Why couldn't they have lived a normal, happily married life? Why did they have to have these problems, why did Francis have to have his sickness, why couldn't anything be the way they were supposed to be? Were they cursed? Were they damned? What _was_ it? He'd never asked for anything in his entire life. All he wanted was to be happy, to be loved, to find someone he could love in return.

"Yeah," Arthur said, and it sounded as though he was choking back tears as well, as though the two had been sharing the exact same thoughts.

Francis finally turned back to look at the Brit, but the other had his face turned downward and was looking at his fists. Tears were dripping steadily on them, and Arthur's figure was trembling slightly; the second time Francis had ever seen Arthur cry. And it was so strange, that this second time actually opening up to Francis was during a time when the two were farthest apart.

"Don't cry," Francis said helplessly, because his heart ached. Arthur looked up, eyes glistening with wetness, and Francis reached out to him just as the other leaned forwards. The two met in the middle, embracing each other, Arthur's arms around Francis' torso and Francis' around his neck. It was ridiculous, and they were not acting like two grown men at all, but for a moment it didn't matter.

"I've missed you," Arthur whispered into his shoulder. Francis could only nod, not trusting himself to speak, but believing Arthur wholeheartedly. "I never stopped loving you, you know. All this time."

They remained like that for the longest time, and the Frenchman had never felt more comfortable and right in his entire life. There were still years of unspoken disagreement between them, and months of full-blown pain that would always separate them, but with his body in such close proximity to the other's it was difficult to remember that. Francis never wanted to let go, but he had to, and they both drew back, laughing a little at each other as they wiped at their eyes.

And Francis didn't want to break this unspoken, mutual consent they had going on, but he knew the news was inevitable and he had to stop running away from his problems. This was how he would start. And if Arthur could not love him for it, then nobody could and Francis had tried.

"I have something to tell you," he said, hesitating only a little bit.

Arthur nodded. Francis looked at the Brit for a long time, wishing with all his might that he did not have to do this. He'd found hope, just now, in Arthur's arms; now he had to give that hope away.

It took Francis a long time to get his words out. He licked his lips, and tried to force them out of his throat, and then coax them out, but try as he might the words simply wouldn't come. He tried once, twice, three more times. Arthur sat, patient as ever. The Brit saw his struggle and he reached up and took Francis' hand once more, giving him an encouraging smile. The green eyes never left his face. In them, there was age. Maturity. Sorrow. Trust.

"I'm HIV positive," Francis said. "No one else knows."

Arthur went very still. His lips were slightly agape, though they closed together for a split second and then parted again. His eyes shifted across the room, as though there was something else there that could refute the statement or perhaps clarify it some more as a kind of mistake.

"What did you say?" he asked, brows pulling together.

"Arthur," Francis said instead, putting a hand over the one Arthur had on his own. "Arthur, please don't be upset with me. Please listen —"

"No," Arthur shook his head. "No, I just — I, I need a moment."

Francis nodded. He watched with terror in his heart as Arthur breathed in, out, in, out, looking everywhere except at him. His grip on Francis' hand had tightened painfully, and Francis watched as the swelling in the Brit's eyes became more prominent once again.

"How long?" Arthur asked bravely.

"Mid-December," Francis responded, heart hammering in his chest like punches. Everything was up to Arthur now, because that — the disease — had been the last of his real secrets. Marseille, the affair, the disease. And everything was out now. "I mean, probably earlier than that. But that's when I found out."

"I wanted to work things out with you," Arthur said. "When I got the call about you and I saw you lying here for the first time, the first thing I thought was, Oh God, let him be okay. I would do anything to make sure he was okay."

Francis' throat constricted painfully. Arthur had come here willing to give him another chance. Arthur had come wanting to make it work with him. Arthur had come here looking for his husband, to invite his husband back home.

His husband — not a diseased individual he could not afford to take care of.

"I understand," Francis nodded, because he did, although it hurt.

"I need to go," said Arthur, gathering his coat in his arms and getting off the chair. "I need to go — I, I just. I need to leave." He looked almost apologetic, but he was in no hurry running out the door.

Francis collapsed back on the bed, regretful. He hadn't known what to expect. He didn't blame Arthur for the decision. He would have left himself, too. There was no room in anyone's hearts for a broken man.

* * *

Antonio and Gilbert came into the room later, a long time after Arthur had left.

"Francis," breathed Antonio, rushing to the bed and throwing his arms around Francis' neck, knocking the breath out of him. "Francis! Francis!" the Spaniard wailed, shaking his head back and forth as though refusing to believe it. "Arthur called, we came as fast as we could -"

Gilbert hung back, looking terrifically out of place in his unkempt suit and crooked tie. His face was a mask of impending brood, his hands buried in too-deep pockets, the upper row of his front teeth stained with the maroon seeping from his lips. He nodded at Francis, and that was all.

Antonio pulled away, hands still clasped on Francis' aching shoulders. "You had us worried sick," he cried. "You should have called. When was the last time you called? Months ago!"

"We thought you were dead," Gilbert said flatly.

"I hadn't meant to worry you," Francis responded, for lack of anything better to say in consolation.

"Yeah?" Gilbert advanced, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket. "Move, Tony."

Antonio seemed to realize exactly what Gilbert was planning on doing and intuitively moved over to cover his bedridden friend, which put the Frenchman in an exceedingly disagreeable position with half the Spaniard's body draped over him. "No, Gilbert," Antonio said firmly. "You need to control yourself. Francis is still recovering."

"Move, Tony," Gilbert growled. "Or I'll punch your fucking head in too."

"You can't mean that," protested Antonio.

Francis gently removed Antonio from his torso. He didn't say a single thing, because although he felt grateful towards his friend for attempting to protect him, his gratitude could not be quenched by the staggering self-loathing that fell heavy on his current state of mind. And he felt that should Gilbert move to strike him, he had no right to protest nor was he in any position to ask Antonio's protest in his place.

Antonio had only drawn back for a second, mouth halfway open to chastise, when Gilbert surged forwards.

Francis only heard the quick clang in his ears before tasting metallic blood rush thick in his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut, he moved to spit out the contents instinctively — but then Gilbert was there once more, bashing his head over and over again into the bed relentlessly, screaming himself hoarse all the while. Suddenly there were other people scrambling into the room, noises and voices, and a clamor of sounds and a crowd of bodies. And suddenly Francis almost lost complete and utter control of his bladder in pure terror — an urge that hadn't swept across him since he was in diapers.

Suddenly, suddenly they were all gone — his focus returned, his doubles turned to ones, and there was a young man leaning over him pressing a bag of ice to his nose. There was blood — blood everywhere, and though the damage could not possibly have been that significant nor the pain that prominent, Francis was bawling. There was just so much of the stuff, and it didn't stop flowing, and everything was so loud. He faintly heard Antonio's own voice rising through the fissures of the music of blood pulsating through his ears and he could feel the nurses with their cold cool fingers on his pulse and all over his face and he bat them away, all of them, with furious swats. He just wanted Gilbert and Antonio back — it had been too, too long since they were together — he wanted to grip Gilbert tight and beg his forgiveness even if the German tried to pummel him to dust. And he wanted Arthur, he wanted Arthur, he wanted Arthur.

Arthur would make it all okay.

And then Francis was screaming, hands outstretched towards the door he could not see, blinded by hysterics as he was. He beat the bed down with his fists, arching into it even as the nurses tried to push him down, calm him down. He was sobbing for all that had gone wrong, all that was so unfair — for a husband that would leave him at his lowest, for a best friend who would hurt him at his most vulnerable. For the blood that stained the white room red — the room that had been Francis' solace just a dream ago, the room that contained within it the boy with piercing eyes whom Francis had adored his entire life. For having loved and being loved and knowing love as all he is until he gave too much of himself, invested too thoughtlessly, reached out too far. It hurt, loving so many things at the same time, stretching yourself out so thin until there was nothing left to love yourself with.

* * *

Arthur returned later, when the echoes of the white-haired bright-eyed child and his lovely curly-haired kind-hearted best friend had long ago died down and were but the remnants of a memory one could never be too sure truly happened.

He shuffled into the room like a quivering destitute seeking shelter, like a wronged man seeking renewed faith before a holy altar. Though Francis was now motionless on the bed, his consciousness drifting between the now and then, his head turned away from the entrance and half-lidded eyes staring blankly out the window, he caught every motion of the Brit — every fidgeting twitch of his fingers, every unsure scuffle of his feet. And Francis remained still, cautious of the shallow rise and fall of his lungs as he watched Arthur from the corners of his eyes with his limbs limp by his side, feeling breakable.

Arthur closed the door quietly behind him.

"I told you I'd come back," said he, stopping in the middle of the room, speaking to Francis' back where a single sheet of blanket lay stretched over.

"You didn't," murmured Francis into his pillow.

"Alright, so I didn't. Sue me."

Arthur walked as though he was afraid Francis would suddenly leap out of the bed and chase him away, but the Frenchman no longer had the energy to do so even if he wanted. The Brit lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, lifting his hand hesitatingly before running it through Francis' short locks. They remained like that for a while, Francis lulled to almost-sleep by the steady pull of Arthur's fingers across his scalp. Francis wondered if Arthur knew the extent of his self-hatred.

"What have I done to you?" whispered Arthur finally.

Francis said nothing. He kept hearing the voices in his head of the nurses that had spoken after Gilbert and Antonio left — _his body is unusually pale and weak. He's forty pounds underweight. Although we didn't have to put him on oxygen after we pulled him out of that river, just a second longer in there and he would have been a goner. Even now, he's close to it. We should keep him here. For a while, at least. Run some tests. Figure out what's wrong._

"It's not you," breathed Francis. "I'm a horrible life partner."

"I'm a shittier one," laughed Arthur.

Francis rolled over, bed moaning, so that he and Arthur were face to face. They smiled at each other, and Arthur moved his hand from Francis' hair to Francis' hand and held it tightly. He leaned in, and pressed his forehead against the other's.

"What are we going to do?" asked Arthur, voicing aloud the question that had been on their minds for what seemed like forever. He said it so quietly, his breath just barely grazed the other's lips.

Francis closed his eyes. "I'll let you make the call."

"Don't be an idiot. We're going to make this work together, Francis, because the moment we got married to each other we promised there'd be no more 'I'; it's going to be us. You and me."

The Frenchman smiled again, faintly. He almost wanted to point out all the times the past few months when Arthur _hadn't_ been there for him, when he'd had to get here by himself without another soul in the world to lean on.

"I would have stayed with you anyway," Arthur said softly, bringing his other hand up to cup Francis' cheek like the green-eyed boy in his dreams had. "You know that, right? I would have stayed with you if I'd known. I was just," he shuddered, "Angry. I was so blinded by anger I couldn't think straight — and then it was only pride that held me back from picking up that phone and calling you." He sounded like he was having difficulties getting his words out, and when Francis opened his eyes he saw that Arthur was once again tearing up. It was so goddamned easy to cry nowadays.

"I'm so sorry," choked the Brit, gulping down huge swallows as he worked his mouth around the words. "I did this to you. I did."

"Stop that," chided Francis, meaning for the other to both stop crying and stop blaming himself. He would have reached for Arthur himself with a hand, but his only remaining arm was pressed too tightly against his side and the bed. "You're going to make me cry."

"I've never cried so many times in a single day before," admitted Arthur. "It's pathetic."

Francis half-laughed.

"God," said Arthur. "God." He leaned in just as Francis leaned forwards, their lips crushing together with a desperate, hungry need. Francis could taste the salty tears that had coated themselves over the other's chapped lips and felt Arthur's free hand move to the back of his head, locking him in place. He ran his tongue over Arthur's teeth, felt it as Arthur's lips parted over his to allow a gasp of hastily gulped air, sensed the crushing embrace of their collision. The temperature around them seemed to drop a hundred degrees. Suddenly all and everything was just Arthur — Arthur's insistent, willing tongue, Arthur's noises at the back of his throat, Arthur's hand now on the side of his burning hot skin. It was messy, and urgent, but not sloppy and awkward; they fit together perfectly, like they always have, moving and responding as the other did, pressing to each other as though needing to converge into one. They parted briefly, and then Arthur was on his right cheek, forehead, left cheek, before returning to the lips and then pulling away one final time.

Francis was halfway sitting up now using his elbow as a prop, his other arm gripping the edge of the bed. The Brit was half an arm's distance away, both his hands cupping the sides of Francis' face, eyes ravaging the other apart. They took each other in, breathing hard; Francis would not be able to tear his stare away from this man if his life depended on it in that moment. Arthur filled his entire view then — his dark, glittering eyes and long blond lashes and his swollen, slightly parted lips and mussed hair. And it was as though a million questions he'd been asking all his existence had suddenly been answered. And it was as though that moment was eternity.

"I'm not going to leave you," Arthur affirmed. It was all Francis could ask for — to be taken care of for once, to not have to worry about anything else, to place his responsibilities and burdens on another and for that to be okay. And how glorious that was — how lightheaded, light-shouldered he felt with that single utterance! To know that there was someone out there who still cared for him, that he and the other stood as equals, that together they could conquer the free world — that, that was utter, indescribable euphoria. There was nothing Francis could have said or done that would have accurately captured the immensity of his wildly rushing emotions: the pure joy that swept through him, the shock that ran down his spinal cord and touched down on every extremity in his nervous system, the reassurance that he'd been hoping for all along — _I knew it. I knew it all along. Arthur would never leave me. Not him_ — his belief, his life source, his oxygen in a world without.

And Arthur must have caught that little smile that tugged on the tips of Francis' lips as well, for he leaned down and pressed two soft, gentle kisses to each side. And Francis could forget about everything that had happened to him. His smoking, his alcoholism, his substance abuse, his depression, his hallucinations, his HIV and loss of beauty and weight and his throwing up blood and near suicidal attempt — and maybe, maybe even the affair, for a moment. Because they were going to work through this, together. And that, that was all that mattered for now.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4634 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Arthur and Francis try to untangle the knots in their relationship.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Francis was back home again for the first time in months.

It was good to be back. The apartment was the same as it always was — maybe a little dirtier, a little mustier, but as familiar as ever. And — well, it was home.

Arthur stood to his right, carrying the bag they'd ferried from the old run-down apartment where Francis had been staying. He placed it down gently, removed his tie, kicked off his shoes, and flicked on the living room lights before gingerly taking a step in. Every one of his movements was controlled and careful, as though he didn't know how to act around his reclaimed husband. Francis couldn't blame him; he felt the same way. They still had a long way to go.

"Hungry?" asked Arthur.

"No, I'm alright."

"I'll put your stuff away," said Arthur, grabbing the duffel and disappearing into the bedroom.

Francis wondered what it would feel like to wake up next to Arthur again, washed in morning sunlight. He followed Arthur into the room and leaned against the door frame with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking out of place. He watched Arthur for a little while before turning his eyes to the bedside table that was wiped clean of the photographs they used to keep there. He'd expected that Arthur would throw away their photos — it wouldn't have been the first time — but Arthur had always kept the ones of Matthew, and Francis felt a little indignant that those ones were gone too. What has Matthew ever done to deserve Arthur's anger? Was his only crime that of being Francis' younger brother?

"You'll take care of Matthew, right?" Francis asked suddenly, and Arthur jerked, not having known that he was being watched. "If…if something happens to me? You'll make sure he's alright?"

Arthur straightened, the bag slack in his hands. "What do you mean, if something happens to you? Nothing's going to happen to you."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, don't."

"But I'm only just _saying._"

"Well, stop. I don't want to hear it."

Francis' lips turned into a tight line. He wanted to argue, but he almost felt like he shouldn't because Arthur held the upper ground. Here, he was almost inferior to the Brit, because it was _he_ who had had the affair, _he_ who was sick, _he _who suffered from clinical depression and almost just killed himself, not the other way around.

Arthur seemed to notice this and dropped the bag. He sat down on the edge of the bed, inviting Francis to join by patting the space beside him. Francis did, though he remained as tight-lipped and straight-backed as possible.

"Look at me," Arthur ordered, and Francis did. Both of them shifted around a little so that their knees were touching and they were completely facing each other, one hand keeping them balanced on the bed. Arthur didn't touch Francis otherwise — only ran his eyes critically over Francis' thin body. Francis almost flinched when he did so. He didn't want _anybody_ — not even Arthur — to look at him in that way, ever. "We, uh," said Arthur. "We have a lot to do."

Francis nodded.

"Maybe we should make a list."

"A list?" Francis shook his head. He didn't want Arthur to objectify their problems by categorizing them on paper. And he didn't want to admit that some of those problems existed — because even though he knew they did in his own mind, writing them down would make them seem more concrete, would affirm their existence.

"Why not?" asked Arthur, not unkindly.

"I just don't want to," said Francis.

Arthur looked like he was biting down hard on his tongue. "Okay. Okay, that's fine too." He gave the other a small smile, reaching his hand over to place it on Francis' thigh. The smile was intended for comfort, and it accomplished its goal; Francis visibly loosened up. He returned it, grateful.

"We should, uh," Arthur cleared his throat. "We should talk, then."

Francis chewed his bottom lip. "I don't want to do that, either." There was just too much to talk about, and Francis didn't want to take any risks.

Arthur threw up his hands. "What _do_ you want to do, then?"

"You don't have to get angry," protested Francis. "That's only two things you suggested we do that I denied. It's not like I don't want to do _anything._"

"Alright. Jolly good. Do you want to call your brother then, tell him what happened? I mean, I called Gilbert and Antonio to let them know - but Matthew doesn't know anything yet, just that you were panicking over the phone a few hours before you jumped. He almost sent out a search party for you, you know."

"Well…no." Matthew can't know, not yet. There were too many things Francis had hidden from him and to tell him one would be to tell him all, and Matthew would not be able to handle all that information. Neither could Francis handle having to deal with Matthew trying to handle.

Arthur's face reddened. "Do you want to go out for a movie?"

"I don't think now's a good time for that, Arthur."

"Okay, fine," said Arthur, tightening his grip on Francis' leg. "Whatever. Water?"

Francis moved Arthur's hand off his leg because it was starting to grow numb. "No, thank you. Really."

He wondered if it would be appropriate if he was to suddenly laugh at Arthur's growing expression of frustration. "How about I just leave you be, and you can get some rest, then," grit out the Brit, moving to get off the bed. "You must be tired." He tried to give another smile, a more sympathetic one, but it turned out to look more like a grimace.

Francis grabbed Arthur's hand. "I was thinking, maybe we could go for a walk."

"A walk."

"Yes. Yes, a walk. I think that would be nice."

Francis could tell that now it was Arthur who didn't want to go for a walk, probably because walking would require more energy than Arthur could afford to give at the moment. And probably because Arthur wouldn't have the liberty to blow up at Francis whenever he wanted to out in public.

"Okay," agreed Arthur finally. "Let's go grab our coats."

Francis let out a breath, thankful. Although his own fingers slackened, Arthur never let go of his hand for the entire eight-second trip back to the front door. Francis would call that progress.

* * *

Before they left the apartment, Arthur made a cup of tea and poured it into his thermos; probably to calm his nerves, Francis suspected. The Brit offered some to him, which he took gingerly. The tea burned in his stomach, causing him to almost throw it back up, and Francis had a sudden longing to just crawl back into bed and do nothing for the rest of the week. He just felt so ill; how he had managed to feel completely fine a week ago was an enigma to him. Fortunately, he managed to simply pass off the pain with a quick grimace before Arthur could ask him what the matter was, and he handed the tea back and simply replied that it's been a while since he tried the stuff, being careful not to insult the other's favourite beverage.

"Tell me if you get tired," said Arthur soothingly, running his hand up and down Francis' arm. "We can come back straightaway."

"I'm not tired."

"Not _now_. I mean, later. Tell me if you get tired - or hungry, or thirsty, or anything. I'll take care of you." Arthur rubbed his arm comfortingly once more before bringing the cusp of his cup to his lips and then taking a sip. He put his cup down for a moment to bend over and lace up his boots.

Francis allowed himself a small smile.

Things were different now, Francis knew, different in the way they were going to interact and different in their dynamic. For a while, at least, Francis had to do his utmost best to avoid a fight with his husband, to avoid teasing him or insulting him or calling him any degrading names. He knew it would be hard; after all, bickering for bickering's sake was what they did, and it was one of the things Francis actually loved about their relationship. There were going to be sacrifices both of them had to be willing to make, if both were fully supportive of the idea of living together once again. Francis was determined, this time, not to screw things up.

They didn't chat for a while after they left the building. Arthur had brought with him a small tub of Nutella which Francis held and they were taking turns eating the stuff right off their fingers. After a while of this, just walking through the wet streets of Paris, Arthur seemed to come across a realization and pulled the container away from Francis and asked, "Is there anything you can't eat?"

Francis just shrugged, for he honestly did not know. He was just glad to have good food back in his system, after having survived for so long on stale sandwiches and water. His new mantra had become _eat it first and if you feel sick later, don't eat it again._ "I don't think so." _Honestly, if it doesn't give me acid reflux or heartburn, I'm good._

Arthur gently picked up Francis' wrist and shook it limply. "Well, you are rather skinny," he said. "Do you want to go out for dinner? It'll be good for us. It'll be like, a date…of sorts."

Francis smiled shyly and picked at his scarf. He twisted his hand around the one Arthur had on his wrist and fit his slim fingers between the other's. "Could we just grab some take out? I'm not really up for eating in a public restaurant. I can't — can't deal with being around too many people at the moment."

"Is it because," Arthur hesitated. "Because of how you look?"

Francis shrugged again, not wanting to appear like a martyr or for Arthur to worry about him. "I always look gorgeous, Arthur, and you know it," he said, but his voice cracked at the end and he just sounded _pathetic._ He coughed and turned his head to the side and tried letting go of Arthur's hand.

"You're ridiculous," Arthur snorted, pulling him closer. A very serious look flitted across his face, and Francis' heart plummeted as he wondered if Arthur was going to say something cruel to him. He tried jerking away again and tucking his arm against his chest, but Arthur only leaned forwards and whispered fiercely in his ear, "Don't you try to fool me. You're as vain as you always were; nothing's changed about that, and I love you for it. You've lost some weight, sure, but don't you ever try to tell yourself that you're any less of a person for it. You hear me?"

Francis nodded furiously, his face red in alarm and embarrassment. "Arthur, you don't have to whisper your affections to me. Be a little more confident in yourself." He smiled shakily, trying to look confident himself, when inside his heart was thumping like a trip hammer. _He said 'I love you' to me. He just told me he loves me. The last time he's said it must have been on our wedding day, two and a half years ago. _

Arthur slapped him on the shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Can't ever take what you got," he muttered.

Francis, seized by a wild, instinctual impulse, took a leap of faith and put the Nutella right on the ground and quickly leaned over and with his other hand ran a finger down one of Arthur's hairy eyebrows. It twitched in response, and Francis was pulling away so quickly you could hardly have even told that he was there, and then he was pulling up the scarf so that it hid the tip of his nose and feeling like he was twelve years old again, all gangly with adolescence and giddy with the idea of love. "I must have missed you more than I thought," said Francis aloud, though he didn't mean to.

Now it was Arthur's turn to blush, which was always an adorable sight to behold. The redness would travel all the way up his neck to his ears, deepening the colour of his freckles and making his eyes go all big and scared looking. There, in the middle of the sidewalk they stopped and shared a quick kiss as Parisians and tourists alike milled about them, their feet making wet splashing noises as they hurried through the puddles of rain.

Arthur was the first to break away, pulling Francis along as they, too, began to run, laughing and fumbling for more kisses, their hands clenched together between them, their tongues thick with the taste of Nutella and Earl Grey and each other. In that moment they felt more like the young adults they were in college than the mid-20s men they were now and it was exhilarating, to feel so wild and young again with the one person you adored most. They ignored the looks they got from those they passed, the ones that probably read _Teenagers,_ with a bemused smile — because they did indeed look like teenagers when their laugh lines covered the wrinkles of adulthood. They didn't know where they were going — and it didn't matter, anyway. They were simply running away, placing distance between them and their old flat and all the painful memories held within it. Twice Arthur stopped and fumbled through his pockets for spare change (all the while with Francis panting alongside him or attacking his cheeks with his lips) — once to buy his husband a flower, which he gave with not a trace of hesitation and the other received with flying enthusiasm, the other time for a euro to toss in the fountain located in the center of their neighbourhood park.

"Force of habit," Arthur said then, and they both laughed like idiots, watching the coin sink to the bottom — Francis because he was the one who introduced this habit to Arthur in the first place, and Arthur because he remembered.

It was for good luck — a long, happy, prosperous life. And sometimes a wish, which would be a little too cliche for Arthur, but it was the kind of thing Francis lived for — cliche, cheesy, romantic moments.

"If you had a wish —" he started, but Arthur beat him to it.

"For things to get better," Arthur said, and they turned to look at each other at exactly the same time. Arthur's eyes were wide and determined, his lips set to a grim line, and he was breathing hard through his nose. They were still holding hands, but no longer laughing, no longer clutching at each other for dear life; they were calmer, stiller, and Francis only then realized how late it had gotten. The stars had already come out. "Between us, you know. And for you."

"Arthur —"

"Francis, I." Arthur let go of Francis for a moment to press the back of his fist to his mouth, and Francis was vividly reminded of the moment Arthur had found him out at three AM in the morning, the last time they had had a proper conversation before everything started to go wrong. "You don't know how horrible I feel for all of this."

Francis reached for the hand again, struggled to pull it away from Arthur's face. "Arthur, it's okay. Everything is going to be okay."

"How do you know that?" Arthur shot back.

"Because it always is," Francis said helplessly, though he _didn't._

"Look at you," Arthur said, gesturing to all of Francis, and Francis looked at himself, at the body Arthur had almost called beautiful just a few hours ago. "No, don't. I didn't mean it like that. It's not _you_, it's —"

"The sickness."

"The sickness," Arthur repeated flatly, and Francis nodded, though he knew it wasn't true.

It wasn't the HIV that was doing all this to him — it was himself.

"You're making me feel like I'm on death row," Francis said, trying to lighten the mood. "So don't talk like that. I'll be _fine_. I was fine on my own for a long time, wasn't I?"

"That's the thing!" Arthur shouted, twisting his arm away from Francis and taking two steps back. "That's the thing! I wasn't there for you, I should have been there for you — Antonio called me and told me you were sick and I believed him but I didn't and I didn't even bother to check — and then you had to go and try to kill yourself, you imbecile —"

"Arthur —"

"There's something fucked up with your brain!" Arthur was screaming now, and the park was dead quiet. On their right, just a couple dozen meters away, the Seine flowed gently by; it seemed like in Paris, no matter where you turned, the Seine was always there, haunting you. "You're not supposed to be so calm about this. You have HIV — a terminal disease, and you're just withering away right now, and you threw yourself off a bridge — there's something so fucked up with you! Tell me what I was supposed to have done if you'd been successful! Tell me what would have happened to me if you'd died!"

Francis knows that he's dying, knows that he's rotting away, but it hurts even more when it's coming from Arthur, and he wonders why it was that they were always doing this to each other. He was sniffling silently into his own hands now, the ones that cupped the lower half of his face, not willing to face his husband. The rose had fallen to the ground when Francis covered his face, somewhat crumpled by all this stepping around.

"You're going to die. You're going to die and you're going to leave me here, all alone. You couldn't even have worn a condom. You could have gotten Chel pregnant. What the hell were you thinking? If the HIV doesn't kill you, I swear to God I will — I swear to _God_, Francis, I thought I could die for you and I would, I would if we could switch places, but I can't live for you. I can't do it. I can't."

Francis was nodding, always nodding, accepting the words freely, tears streaming down his face with no sign of cease. "I know," he managed to choke. "I know I'm wasted and dying. Please, Arthur — please stop. You're making me feel — I, just. You don't have to say it out loud, you know?" Because the question of his death from HIV had never been something Francis had really pondered before. He'd always known that the HIV brought him certain failure in life, abject misery, but he had never considered the fact that it may never go away and it may just keep on eating at him until he is decomposing beneath the ground, to die for the second and last time.

"How could you be so selfish?" whispered Arthur. "To have tried to end your life before it was your time — how?" And Arthur was not making any sense, he was contradicting himself and just saying all the things that were on his mind and Francis _knew_ this, but he couldn't help think about how it was unfair of the Brit to ask him of all these things.

"I don't know," Francis cried, his cold breath escaping his hands and making misty formations in the night air. "I don't know."

"You won't even deny it," snarled Arthur, and suddenly he had a fist clenched and he punched Francis right in the middle of his face, right where Gilbert's blow had also landed. Francis fell back, surprised, his hands falling away from his face, and when he regained his footing he looked on at his husband with betrayal in his eyes and blood pouring from his nose onto his palms. And that was ridiculous, really, for the blow hadn't even hurt that much — the words hurt so much more. And it wasn't the first time they'd traded blows, it really wasn't — but for Arthur to have lashed out at him in this manner, for him to have beat at him and broken him down and then kicked out for good measure — for him to have lowered his guard and for Arthur to have punched him anyway — that was what intensified the pain all that much more.

"Oh, God," said Arthur. "Oh, God, I hadn't meant to do that. Here — sorry. Here — here, let me —" but it was too late, and Francis was spinning on his heels and running away.

He was faintly aware of the fact that Arthur was following him as he tore his way through the park, past the trees and bushes and all that, and it didn't really matter anyway because soon he was out of breath and had to stop. He just didn't want to be around Arthur. He just wanted to be as far as possible from the Brit — on the other side of the solar system, preferably, or in another life or time or whatever. Some self-hating traitorous part of him even wanted Arthur dead a little bit, because he was boiling with rage and anger and betrayal and some things didn't matter anymore.

Then there were arms around him as he crouched down, his strength having completely left him. He wondered if Arthur thought him even the more pathetic because of it, and found that he didn't care what Arthur thought at all. Or maybe he did. He couldn't tell anymore; all he could feel was the searing pain from his abdomen and the hacking sobs from his chest and the dizziness in his head from lack of breath and the wetness that he kept trying to wipe away from his cheeks and chin and most of all the tenderness of his nose — broken?

"Get away from me, you brute," he said, trying to preserve the last pieces of his self-respect as he struggled to push Arthur away, but the Brit had him firmly clenched by his upper arms. And so badly did Francis want to punch him back now that the other was in such close proximity and his hands were free, but no — he turned his head instead, letting the blood drip, and bit down hard on his bottom lip and wondered if he could ever stop crying, just for a day or two.

Arthur didn't say a word. He was wiping at Francis' face with the sleeve of his jacket, which was disgusting, but Francis could no longer spare the energy to resist. He collapsed against the nearest tree and let Arthur tend to him, sniffling every once in a while. He couldn't see a thing, not in this kind of darkness, except for maybe the stars up ahead; they twinkled as though to mock him.

"Can you not," Francis struggled to say, as both grew calmer. "Could you, next time, not lie to me?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur's voice was hoarse and broken sounding.

"Don't tell me you love me, and then say all those other things," Francis said.

"I didn't mean any of that other stuff," Arthur protested. His own face was dry and tear-less — whether it was because he was attempting to remain the stronger of the two or because he really didn't give a damn. Francis sort of hated him for both.

"There you go again, lying."

Arthur stopped, and Francis braced himself for the impact. He wondered what Arthur would say — _Well, you lied first, you bastard. You were the one who got us into this mess in the first place. You screwed us both over. Can you really blame me? You cheated on me. You broke my heart. This is the least I can do in retaliation._ But he didn't say any of those things; he leaned over and gave Francis a kiss on the forehead, and then on the nose, and when he pulled away there was a bit of blood on his lips. And Francis was reminded of why he fell in love with this man in the first place, and it helped calm him down a little. He already knew, in a way, that he had forgiven him.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured, brushing Francis' hair away from his eyes. "I lost control for a moment. It won't happen again."

"That's what physically abusive husbands always say," Francis muttered, a little resentfully.

"Do shut up," Arthur said. "And don't be so dramatic."

"You've ruined my face forever," mumbled Francis.

"Not forever, love," Arthur sighed. "You'll be back in shape in no time. Your nose isn't even broken, you big crybaby, look —" and then he poked it, and Francis yelped.

"That's the second time I've been punched in two days," Francis said accusingly.

"Who else hit you?" scowled Arthur.

"Gilbert."

"Gilbert hit you?! I'm going to kick his balls in!"

Francis laughed at the irony of it, before growing silent for a moment.

"If you ever hit me again, I'm leaving," he finally said firmly, though he didn't mean it. Even if Arthur beat him down to the ground every single night, he would probably still stay so long as he was wanted. _Fucked up,_ just like Arthur said. Everything was fucked up.

Arthur swallowed and nodded. "Okay."

"Or say any of those things."

"Fair enough."

Arthur helped Francis off the ground and dusted the dirt off the other's jeans and shoulders. Most of the blood was gone from Francis' face now, although what had remained had spread and dried everywhere and made him look as though he'd just gotten back from a gang attack. They hugged fiercely, and Francis hiccuped, and they laughed, although some things still throbbed on the inside.

"Hey," Arthur said. "You're not ugly, and," he choked, "You're not useless. And you're not going to die. I'll make sure of that. I swear. We'll be old together one day, you and I."

Francis nodded mutely. Arthur went on, "I'll make it up to you, somehow."

"I know you will." A smile of trust.

Arthur returned it. "Let's go find some food. You must be starving." They fumbled for each other's hands again and they held each other tight; this time, they wouldn't let go.

Francis knew that there were many things that were wrong with their relationship — the way they fought so often and were violent towards each other and hurt each other more often than not. And how they were utterly and hopelessly dependent on each other. This was unhealthy, this was unsafe, this would drive both of them to their graves. But as long as they went together.

The most important thing was that as long as they had each other, there was hope; hope that one day they'd be able to move past their troubles and see a therapist and become a real, working couple. To Francis, that was all that mattered. Their relationship may be one of the most dysfunctional in the world — to the point where any other couple in their place would have already ended up on some TV show ('Didn't you see the signs?' someone would ask him, and Francis would have to reply, 'Yes, I guess I did. I'm a real idiot.') — but it was all Francis had, and he knew that that tiny sliver of hope to see a future where both he and Arthur were happy together would keep them going for as long as need be until they both dropped dead where they stood.

But as long as they went together.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 3749 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Et comme l'Espérance est violente...

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

They ended up finding some quiet restaurant to stay where there were not a lot of people. Both went to get washed up in the bathroom, Francis spending a careful amount of time on making sure his hair was in order. Since it was so short, there was not much to do, and he ended up fiddling with his shirt buttons while waiting for Arthur to finish using the urinal.

Arthur noticed him at it as he was walking towards the sink and pointed out, for the second time, Francis' hair. "Why did you get it cut?"

This was the question Francis had been dreading most of all — for to answer honestly would be to tell Arthur about the visit Chel had paid him. He couldn't have that, not now. "I, uh," he cleared his throat. "I thought it was time for a change."

Arthur went quiet, and Francis wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say. A hair cut could potentially be a sign of moving on, of changing one's perspective in life — of Francis insinuating that he'd been trying to get over his husband after their 'break-up'. Francis, too, remained silent — he didn't know what to add to his words to make Arthur think otherwise.

Arthur dried off his hands and the two left the men's room and found their seats at the table. Arthur spent most of the time ignoring Francis in favour of reading the menu upside down while Francis' eyes wandered around the restaurant, for once not out of any particular desire to find some beautiful young waitress to hit on but out of curiosity. He'd never come here before, and he knew practically every single good French restaurant within a ten mile radius. This was probably not a good French restaurant. Arthur looked up at him from two very thick brows. "I hope you aren't —" he started dangerously, and Francis quickly waved his hands.

"No, no," he smiled. "I'm — I'm done. With that, I mean."

Arthur put the menu down and reached his hands across the table; Francis took them both. It felt like the longest night of his life; just this morning he'd still been in the hospital before Arthur had managed to convince the nurses to forgo the tests they wanted to take because Francis was _fine_, thank you very much. And just yesterday he had had that dream and Gilbert had punched him in the face and that seemed like it'd been years ago.

"We should probably talk," said Arthur. "About us."

Francis agreed, and watched with some amusement as Arthur began to turn red. The Brit had never been good at talking about his feelings; hell, neither was he. They were both terribly bad with communication. He obviously did not know how or where to start, so Francis summoned what courage he had left and decided to go first.

"These past few months, I…" he started, struggling to remember any of it. What had he done? The time had passed in a daze of booze and smoke and heavy depression; he knew that the days had seemed to drag by forever, but now that they were over he could hardly recall a single thing that'd happened. "I was lost," he said instead, fumbling over his words and deciding to rely on his body language instead. He looked Arthur right in the eye, and Arthur held his gaze right back, and he tried to communicate his sincerity through that look alone. "I was lost without you, you know. It, well. This…this one time, about a year ago, me and Gilbert met up at _L'Éther Rouge _, and Gilbert suggested that, well. That we were losing our touch. As a couple."

Arthur's eyebrows shot straight up but he said nothing. In fact, he looked all the more serious for it. Francis gulped and continued. "I felt it, too. That maybe we were becoming too domestic. And you have to understand, Arthur, I was _scared _. I'd never done commitment before, and we'd been married for almost a couple years then and I was doing _fine _, but then I realized that maybe the rest of our lives would be exactly like that, forever — and I don't know what came over me —"

"You were growing bored of me."

"It's not like that."

"You just said it yourself," snorted Arthur, leaning away.

Francis tugged him back. "I _love _you. Please just listen to me and let me finish. You have to realize that I could _never_ grow bored of you, or anything silly like that, but. But I wasn't thinking. I just wasn't thinking."

"So it's Gilbert's fault."

"No! It's completely my fault, Gilbert just planted that seed of doubt —"

"A seed significant enough to uproot an entire marriage, apparently," Arthur seethed.

"It's not like that."

"Did you really have so little faith in me?" asked Arthur, slamming his hands against the table and standing up. A few heads turned their way. "In _us_?"

"You always seemed to pay more attention to me when we fought!" Francis yelled right back, standing up to match Arthur's height inch for inch. "And fighting — it's just what we _do_. And I was so stupid, I thought — I thought, if I had an affair —" at this Arthur tore his eyes away and was looking down, and Francis ruthlessly trudged on, "— if, if I had an affair, that maybe you would pay even _more_ attention to me."

A waitress had come to take their order, and both Arthur and Francis slowly sat back down. Arthur spoke in ragged French to her while Francis said nothing. He kept searching Arthur's face, for any sign that he was truly forgiven, for any sign that suggested that Arthur couldn't continue this conversation and that perhaps they should stop. But Arthur, the brave man he always was, a knight at heart, managed to appear strong as ever and the Frenchman sighed with relief and gratitude.

"Sorry," Arthur muttered, smoothing the front of his sweater. "I lost myself there."

"You have to promise to try, Arthur," snapped Francis.

"You're no saint either."

Francis inhaled through his nose. "We've both made mistakes. Just let me finish what I have to say, okay?"

Arthur nodded stiffly, crossing his arms.

Francis shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I don't love Chel," he swore. "It was all only a ploy to get your attention. It was _you_, you know. You. You."

"I know, Francis," Arthur said, trembling in his seat and avoiding eye contact. "I know."

"And," gulped Francis. "And I started throwing up blood when you were at work. I — I didn't know why. I thought it was just because, of how repulsed I felt, because of what I did — to you. Of how guilty I felt. But it wasn't that —"

"So you didn't feel guilty for what you'd done at all?"

"Will you stop trying to pick a fight with me!" cried Francis, grasping at his hair.

"I thought 'fighting is what we do'," Arthur said sarcastically, making air quotes with his fingers. "Your words, not mine."

"Please, Arthur," begged Francis.

Arthur only nodded again.

"I started staying over at Antoine's," Francis plundered on, because he _had to get it out_. "Just for a night, you know, because I needed some air — but then one night turned to two and then three and then I was switching between him and Gilbert and then they were kicking me out because I was staying over so often. And then Gilbert made me see Kiku —" Arthur's eyes widened, and Francis said through dry lips, "Do you remember him?"

"Friend from college," said Arthur, and Francis felt as though a great weight had just been lifted off his shoulders, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He'd always held a bit of resentment towards the Japanese man for being right about his HIV, for implying that he knew more about Arthur than Francis (although Francis probably imagined that), but hearing Arthur's casual admittance of Kiku's friendship with him seemed to remove the last of the envy and anger. And so Francis found the energy to continue:

"Kiku suspected that I had it. The disease, I mean. I'd been carrying a fever, you see — and feeling sick and tired all the time. I didn't know. I think he managed to diagnose me correctly mainly because I told him I'd been spending less time in front of the mirror," and then Arthur chuckled slightly, worry clear in his eyes. "He also said I had a respiratory tract infection, but that wasn't true at all. And that's when I went to see you again. And when I left — I, I wrote you a letter," he said sheepishly.

"A letter?"

"Yes."

"I never received a letter."

"I never sent it." Francis bit his tongue.

"Oh." A pause."What did it say?"

"That you were something of a Godsend," Francis laughed, although he couldn't remember exactly what he'd written. "I ripped it in two and left it on the ground. Someone may have found it by now, it couldn't have gone far." Francis pondered this thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps someone _had_ found it.

"And?"

"And," said Francis. "And shortly afterward I found out, in Antoine's bathroom."

Arthur smiled, a bit sadly. "We're two halves of a whole moron," he said, and Francis shook his head.

"Just me, there."

It was another while more before their food arrived, and when it did, Francis opened up with the rest of the story — without holding anything back. He ended up pushing away most of his food, being for the most part still not very hungry, and went into the whole detail of it all (or at least the major events he could remember) — Yao and speaking with Arthur over the phone and having abdominal pains and nausea and losing weight and quitting his job. He went on to tell of the apartment of the old couple whom he stayed with and feeling as though Arthur had quit him forever. He didn't talk much about that, of course — and skimmed most of the events of the bar visits and heroin injections, leaving out whatever he felt he didn't have to — but as it was, he ended up arriving at the part where Chel came back, and all of a sudden he had to make the decision of whether or not he should tell Arthur the truth.

All this time, Arthur had sat there like the perfect listener, flinching half the time, eyes growing twice as large as he was told about the symptoms, asking Francis all the right questions and not once interrupting to provoke an argument. And that was a sign, it must be. Francis was close, he knew.

And so he decided to lie.

He told Arthur of a girl whose face he did not see, who took him back to her apartment to stay the night although they did not do anything. He did not tell him about the haircut. He did not tell him about forgiving Chel.

He did not tell him about his talk with Matthew or about hallucinating his mother, either.

He knew these lies — these omissions of truths — would one day come back and bite him in the rear but for now he did not care, could not care. Everything else was revealed to Arthur — and shouldn't that be enough?

By the time he had finished his story it was almost eleven in the night and the two had to leave. Francis felt that what he'd revealed that night would dent their relationship even more than before. He wanted to take it back, all of it, to hide his griefs from the world and take care of it himself and to not have Arthur worry — but then Arthur drew him close and whispered, "I'm glad you told me," and kissed him.

Francis was glad, too, in a way. Because it was him and Arthur now; there was no more 'I'.

And God, how it felt good to get all that off his chest.

* * *

When Francis was gone, Arthur had thrown himself in his work. He wrote every day, every hour, every minute, and stopped only for washroom breaks and food breaks. He didn't think about Francis, didn't write about Francis, didn't dream about Francis.

Arthur was not very good at handling his emotions — busying his mind and hands was the only way he knew how.

But for the most part Arthur _dealt_. He didn't tell Francis what life had been like without him, didn't tell Francis that Francis' absence had left Arthur pained and lonesome but as well refreshed and whole. He didn't tell Francis what it'd been like to be alone, to have not needed for once.

Arthur bid Francis to wait outside the restaurant for him so that he could use the restroom. There, he broke down, wondering why it was that Francis had suffered so and Arthur had too quickly been able to move on. Was it just that he cared less? Was it that Francis cared too much? Had he made a dire mistake, allowing Francis back in his life?

That couldn't be it — there was not a single person in the world Arthur so loved — so needed — more than Francis. But was he so out of tune with his feelings that he couldn't even show it, even in the privacy of his own home?

What was _wrong _with the two of them?

* * *

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" Arthur asked Francis, and Francis blinked at him, tired.

"Not particularly," said Francis. "I like to think that there is an eternal paradise in the afterlife, even if I don't believe in God."

"How is that possible?"

Francis shrugged, though he didn't tell Arthur that his near-death experience had led him to believe that perhaps death _was _their eternal paradise.

Arthur smiled; Francis could not see him, but he could still tell by the way he spoke next. "How about in soul mates?" he asked, and Francis froze for a second.

"Well, I believe in you," said Francis, in all seriousness, but Arthur only laughed. "Maybe," Francis continued. "But I think it kind of ruins the validity of a relationship, if two soul mates get together, don't you think?"

"How so?"

"To know that someone was destined for you by a higher power — it's comforting, in a way, but it ruins the relationship you've built with the person you are with now. The trials we've been through, Arthur, everything we've done — was that intended, too? Or was that done by our own means — for us to learn from? I like to think the latter, and that if there is a God he would not be that cruel and capricious."

"God is a writer," Arthur said calmly, turning his head so that he was facing Francis. Francis glanced at him, before turning back to the stars. "It's what he does, putting his characters in difficult situations so that they could one day emerge victorious and be better people. Otherwise, the characters would never grow."

"You're only saying that because _you're _a writer, and you like to romanticize yourself."

"Maybe," said Arthur, grinning cockily.

Francis hummed. "So you admit that soul mates don't exist."

"I never said that."

"You just did. You admitted God gives us trials —"

"To find our soul mates. Yes."

Francis rolled his eyes. "If soul mates did exist, what are the chances they'd find each other? Slim to none. If I found my 'soul mate', I'd tell her off, very politely. She wasn't there for me for the majority of my life. You were. I'd rather have you."

"How do you know _I'm_ not your soul mate?"

Francis turned once again so that he could look at Arthur's face. The Brit kept it neutrally blank; then he propped himself up with one elbow on the hard rooftop and they looked at each other for a long time.

"You?" Francis asked, thinking about Matthew's words. _I'd rather think that we weren't meant to be together but found each other anyway. That's how I'd like to imagine it. I don't want to believe that soul mates exist — because what if my soul mate isn't you?_

Arthur grinned again. "Unlikely, huh?"

"Unlikely," Francis agreed, and both fell onto their backs once more.

"If you think soul mates exist, but that I am not yours, then we must be an accident, you and I," murmured Arthur, and Francis wondered where he was trying to go with this. "A random coincidence. In another life — if reincarnation is real — in another life, you'd be with someone else you _also_ met accidentally, and me the same."

"In another life I'd still choose you," argued Francis. His head was beginning to hurt and he was scared that this was some kind of test Arthur set up for him, something he would not pass. They had never discussed these kind of things before. They had never talked about soul mates or paradise because it just wasn't _them_. The thoughts were inconceivable in essence, too grand and awesome for little mortals like themselves to wrap their minds around.

"You've just contradicted yourself, you daft frog," snorted Arthur. "You can't choose me. I'm random. I'm a shot in the dark. You reached out and grabbed me by chance."

"That's not true. You grabbed me back."

Arthur was silent, and Francis wondered if he was angry that Francis didn't believe and that Francis thought that they'd gotten married simply because it was convenient for them both. It wasn't true. That wasn't true. Every choice he had made in his life had built up to the moments that led to him choosing Arthur over everyone else in the world — and if he had made any other choice than the ones he had then he would not be Francis anymore.

"I think it'd be easier if we both agreed that reincarnation isn't real," Francis said reasonably. "And that soul mates _don't _exist. That we only get one shot in life and then we head straight up, or down. So there's only one me for you, and one you for me."

Arthur was still silent, so Francis took back to watching the night sky. He wondered of Matthew's words, and he remembered all of the events he had gone through that had taken him here.

" _I_ believe in soul mates," said Arthur bitterly from beside him.

"Why don't you go and find yours, then," Francis answered.

"That's the thing," Arthur snapped, sitting upright. "I think you're it."

Francis rose slowly after him, looking at him with eyes shining with incredulity. "You can't possibly be serious," he said.

"I am."

"You're not."

"I _am_."

"You're not!"

"Don't tell me how not to feel!" said Arthur, kicking out and hitting Francis on the shin. Francis for once did not flinch but stood his ground.

"You think even after all this," Francis said, waving his hand around to gesture at nothing, "After all this, you still think I'm it?"

"That's why I'm still here, isn't it?"

Francis didn't know how to feel — inspired? Relieved? Touched? Thankful? Should he argue some more? There were just some things he couldn't agree with with the other man, but he had to hand it to Arthur for trying to pull off a romantic moment. There were some things you don't say to your partner after they tell you 'I think you're my soul mate', and 'Rubbish, _I_ don't' is one of them.

Arthur sneezed.

"Bless you," said Francis angrily.

Another silence, and no return thank-you. Some English gentleman he was.

Francis looked back up. The sky was littered with stars, but even then it was not the most beautiful of views — the populated city with its tall buildings made sure of that. If anything, Paris with her lights was much more beautiful than the sky with her stars. He did not know why he'd bothered suggesting that they come lie up here in the first place.

"It took everything to get me here, you know," he whispered.

"Yeah?" came a whisper back.

"I like to think that you and I, we made each other. We made ourselves into what we are now — with this, this marriage of sorts we have going on. That there was no interference from someone above. And that even if soul mates exist — even if we're not it — all the same I chose you anyway and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. If I had that choice, if reincarnation existed. That's no accident."

"And if you had the choice, but you were not born in the right circumstances, and in another life you and I never meet?"

"Why are you interrogating me?" asked Francis. "I don't know what I'd do. I just know that what we have right now — that's _real_. It's the _here_ and the _now. _I could never love any of my other lovers in my other lives more than you. Damn it, this is why we shouldn't believe in reincarnation."

Arthur shifted around a little and Francis realized that Arthur was searching for his hand, so he groped around in the darkness as well and found it and clenched it tight. The roof underneath him is bumpy and uncomfortable and he is freezing his arse off, but the view from here is beautiful and he's got the only person he could ever want to be with right next to him.

From here, Francis imagined he could see the Mirabeau bridge. He wondered if somewhere in another life, he and Arthur had a happy ending. Maybe soul mates did exist and his really was Arthur and they always end up finding each other no matter where they were. Maybe in another existence, they were two soldiers in a war, two teenagers in the twenty-third century, two pen pals on opposite sides of the Atlantic ocean. Two chess pieces, two angels, two rotting corpses. A serial killer and a FED, a dog and his owner, a pillow and a blanket. Two cats dozing in the sun together, two floating pieces of algae, two thimbles of fresh water from the Great lakes. Two romantics, two nations, two gods.

Hope was such a violent thing.

"Does it make you that uncomfortable?" asked Francis. "Fine, I believe in soul mates. I think you're mine. Are you happy?"

"Not really," Arthur shrugged, and the two fell silent as they wondered the wonders of their world.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 6361 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** They clean up and Matthew gets married.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Slowly, Arthur and Francis picked up the pieces of their broken marriage, dusted them off, and started to assemble them back together.

The first thing they did was bank in Arthur's sick days at work. Francis had already banked in his, but he'd been missing for so long that the company eventually gave up on him and fired him. He was notified of this when Arthur made a phone call to apologize for Francis' absence and they shrugged the Brit off, telling him they didn't care.

The sick days totaled up to a grand number of two and a half months because Arthur had never missed a single day of work before. Because Arthur was afraid he'd get fired as well, he only decided to take two weeks off and then another two weeks when summer rolled around and then another two in the early fall…and so on. The first of the two weeks was just to help Francis ease himself into better habits, to help keep Francis off the alcohol and tobacco and to ensure he could do well on his own. To make up for lost time, mostly.

Then they established a routine. Arthur did end up making a list, but it wasn't of the problems he and his husband had. Rather, it was a list of reminders for them both — when they should be waking up in the morning, what they should be eating, when they needed to go grocery shopping again. Francis was no longer allowed to sleep in on weekdays, only on weekends, even though Francis didn't need to go to work. This was because Arthur wanted them to get them into the habit of going out for morning walks.

Francis was also not to find another job for at least another year — Arthur's work would support them, hopefully. The thing about the way they dealt with their finances was simple — Francis did what he loved and Arthur did what he loved no matter how much they were paid and the two were not to indulge on anything they did not need. They'd never been too well off, but they were happy. Now that Francis' source of income was gone, they would really have to cut back in order to make ends meet and pay for all of Francis' medicine — and that meant selling their microwave and television set and old antique items (that didn't end up being worth much).

This was to ensure that Francis was one hundred percent healthy once more before he went back to working on a daily basis again. Besides, it wasn't exactly like Francis could model clothes when he looked the way he did now.

As well, they decided not to tell anyone else about Francis' HIV. "It's nobody's business but ours," Arthur had said, grinning, and Francis had rolled his eyes at the _Brokeback Mountain_ reference. "Well, at least for a few more months or so — at least until you gain back all your weight. That way, when you tell Matthew, he won't be as worried."

Francis kind of dreaded that day.

They covered up Francis' attempted suicide to Matthew, too, by telling Gilbert and Antonio to keep their mouths shut. Matthew had enough on his plate. Francis _did_ call to let him know he was alright; Matthew yelled a little. Francis congratulated him on his engagement with Lovina, the woman who'd apparently been over at Antonio's on Christmas Eve and was one of Antonio's cousins and something like a little sister to him. Their wedding day was on August the 18th and they were to be wed in some obscure Parisian garden that was actually rather beautiful when he and Arthur looked it up on Google Images.

Francis supposed that meant that his and Antonio's family would be joined, in some distant sort of way.

Francis also went for regular checkups now, and Arthur with him. The first time they went together they head to Kiku, whom Francis had long forgiven, though there really had been nothing to forgive in the first place. Kiku acted maturely and professionally throughout the entire visit and was eager to have seen Arthur again, and right before they left Kiku requested that he talk to Francis privately.

"I'm," Kiku had said, at a loss for words.

"Yes," Francis had responded, taking Kiku's hands in his own. "Thank you."

Kiku had smiled, a little sadly, as he led Francis out. "Take care, Francis-san," he'd said. "Next week."

Francis rescheduled regular visits to Yao as well, though those ones were private. Yao and Francis became fast friends, what with Francis being more willing to open up to him and less moody about everything. Yao told Francis about his daughter, whom he lost four years ago to a horrible accident, and how they'd never managed to make up before her death because he'd detested that she'd never gotten over her crush on one Japanese boy called Kiku Honda whom he thought was too old for her. Francis took that as a lesson to never take anything for granted again and kept Arthur a little closer that night.

He and Arthur, surprisingly, got along. They argued less and laughed and pranked each other more, though their pranks could hardly be considered pranks when they were really just Arthur making scary noises in the closet when Francis was trying to sleep. Francis got him back for it by putting salt in his tea instead of sugar, but the old coot didn't even end up tasting a difference.

Francis' health started to ameliorate. After the first 'phase' of HIV, which was supposedly the most intense, the disease began to kick back and no longer took precedence in the things Francis did in his daily life. At times he could even forget that he had it, for he was able to function perfectly fine, especially when he started eating properly again and when he managed to quit smoking once more and always took his drugs (though they did make him feel a bit weak-kneed sometimes).

After Arthur's two weeks were up, Arthur began to work fervently at home as well in order to make up for the time he'd lost. Francis, feeling much better, did the cooking — which was a great relief to them both because Arthur couldn't cook worth a diddly damn.

Francis was left to kill time alone at home most of the days, though Antonio and Gilbert visited often. Gilbert brought Ludwig over the first time so that Ludwig could apologize for the punch on his brother's behalf. Ludwig was a fifteen year old third-year at high school and liked Francis a lot. Francis liked him back equally as much.

Matthew was still not allowed over because Francis still looked rather skeleton-like, so all of everyone else's visits to see Francis were kept a secret from him, which Francis found rather scandalous.

Antonio brought Lovina over twice and Francis had absolutely fallen in love with her — not because of her, that is to say, _charming _personality, but because he found her chattering and bluntness a great match for the ever-patient Matthew. And he'd never expected his younger brother to win the heart of such a beautiful woman either.

Alfred came twice a month because he and Arthur were good friends and although Francis did not know the man well, Alfred's persistent visiting began to help them form a sort-of amicable relationship with each other. Alfred also owned a mini-refrigerator, which he rolled around with him like a suitcase, which earned bonus points for friendship from Francis because Alfred had _wine_.

"Arthur told me you liked wine," Alfred had said, pulling a disgusted face as Francis eagerly filled his glass to the brim with it. "But dude, he told me you were kind of sick. You sure you should be drinking the stuff?"

"There are no downsides to wine," Francis had countered childishly.

"Won't Arthur find out when he comes home and finds you, uh, drunk?" Arthur had confiscated every beverage in the house that was not water or milk or orange juice, because Arthur strangely really liked orange juice.

"You cannot get drunk off _wine_," Francis had scoffed.

Alfred had just shrugged and opened himself a beer.

Because Alfred complained much too often about how much Matthew complained about not ever seeing Francis, Francis called Matthew at least once a night. Gilbert and Matthew's words about how Francis had been pushing his brother away had haunted him ever since they were uttered, and Francis was determined to fix their relationship too. They chatted about Arthur, about Alfred, about Lovina, about Matthew's giant bear-dog, about hockey — anything and everything that was on Matthew's mind in the heat of the moment. They discussed the possibility of legalizing same-sex marriage in France that the French government was slowly opening itself up to and what Francis was planning on doing about it.

"Nothing," Francis had said, shrugging. "Arthur and I are no less married here right now than in the Netherlands. We won't be getting re-married and we won't be re-affirming our vows. There's no point."

"Do you think pets can get married?" Matthew had then asked, because Matthew had always been the weird one.

"What?"

"Kumajiro."

"You want to marry Kumajiro?"

"No," Matthew had laughed. "Kumajiro wants to marry Gilbert's bird, Gilbird."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. I know everything about Kumajiro."

Francis had had to ask Matthew exactly how old he was again.

Later, one time before they hung up, Matthew repeated the same question he always did — "When can I come see — " but this time Francis accidentally pressed the _Off _button before Matthew could finish his sentence. Scrambling, Francis hurriedly dialed Matthew's number again for fear that his little brother would think that he was annoyed with him. Arthur had given him a strange look as he passed him on the bed.

"I'm sorry, I hung up on accident," Francis had said breathlessly into the phone.

"You knew what I was going to say anyway," had laughed Matthew.

"I didn't want you to think I was getting annoyed with you."

"I would have given you the benefit of the doubt and assumed that you wouldn't be. I mean, when was the last time you'd really gotten mad at me?"

Francis had had to give that some thought. "I can't remember," he'd admitted.

"I know when the last time I was annoyed with _you_."

"Oh, yes?"

"When you were leaving for Paris all those years ago. But I wasn't really annoyed. Just sad."

"Oh, come on," had said Francis, and the two had laughed. "You're over that now, right?"

"Maybe," Matthew had teased.

And then, right before they hung up —

"When can I come —"

But that was when Arthur had conveniently chosen to snatch the phone out of Francis' hands and click the _Off _button for him. "You two need to learn to have shorter conversations," he'd said, scowling.

Francis had thrown a pillow at him.

As for their half-sister, she received a call once every week or so, not out of lack of concern from Francis' part but rather because she was busy preparing for finals. She was studying in a university in Monaco to become a pharmacist, and Francis and Matthew could only hope against hopes that she'd make it partly because they were positive she'd send them some money. Matthew was still on his third year of university and was getting married, so he needed all the financial support he could get, especially since he really just wanted to move back to Canada with Lovina and open up a tomato-maple syrup-farm after he graduated. Francis had his medication to worry about.

During his spare time at home, Francis picked up how to make balloon animals filled with water, which he threw out his window at passing children after school let out. Once, one of the giraffes had landed on Arthur's face just as he was coming home from work early, which was how Arthur found out about Francis' incriminating hobby and got him to stop. So Francis picked up German curse words instead which he greeted Arthur with at the door, telling him they meant things like "I love you" and "You're amazing".

As for their sex life, it went down the drain. The farthest they'd ever go with physical contact would be Francis getting Arthur off a few times here and there when Arthur really needed it, but Arthur never touched Francis. It was as though Arthur thought Francis dirty, sullied, unworthy — claimed by another.

And as for Chel, they never mentioned her again, although Francis kept her in his thoughts.

* * *

Sometime in June, Arthur and Francis celebrated their third anniversary. Because they'd been apart for the better half of their second year together, they decided it really wasn't that much of a cause for celebration and it would just seem fake (Arthur's words, not Francis'), so they decided to host a get-together rather than go down for an expensive dinner or the sorts. Instead of telling their friends that the get-together was for their anniversary (because that would have been strange), they simply told them that it was the pre-Matthew's wedding party, one in which Matthew couldn't show up (not because he wasn't invited, but because he actually had to work that day. Matthew was very put out for missing the chance to see Francis for the first time in forever). Lovina, though, was extremely touched and slightly weirded out because she'd only met her fiance's brother twice and now he was throwing her pre-marital parties. Fortunately, she got too drunk that night to dwell upon the matter too much. Something about freaking out and breaking down.

Because Francis couldn't drink anything, he ended up moping on the couch with Arthur, who was also on probation in order to make Francis feel less alone about it.

"All things considering, this party was a horrible idea," Arthur said, sipping his orange juice and watching as a crowd began to form around Alfred, chanting out numbers as they counted how many grapes he could fit in his mouth.

"You were the one who decided to throw it," Francis muttered.

"We should have gone out to dinner instead."

Francis looked at the clock. 8:30. "We've still time," he said encouragingly, grabbing for Arthur's hands. "Want to?"

"I've work tomorrow."

"So? We won't be out long."

"I want to be home by 10."

"You big baby," teased Francis. "What, you thought people would actually start to leave by 10? Come on, please?"

"I wanted them out by 9," Arthur said, but allowed himself to be pulled off the couch by Francis.

Unfortunately, they never made it past the front door, because that was when Gilbert and Antonio found them.

"I still can't believe you decided to throw Lovina a party, Franny," said Antonio, grinning.

"Technically, it was for Matthew _and_ Lovina —" started Francis, before Arthur tugged on his coat.

"Where you guys headed?" asked Gilbert. "You weren't planning on sneaking out on us, were you? Are we starting to bore you two lovebirds?"

Arthur and Francis gave each other a _look_.

"You guys are more party-poopers than Ludwig," laughed Gilbert, his voice sounding fuzzy.

"You're drunk, Gilbert," Francis said flatly.

"Not drunk enough to do _this_," Gilbert crowed as he lifted Francis over his shoulders.

"Hey!" said Arthur, just as Gilbert fell backwards. Apparently he _was_ too drunk.

"Gottverdammt," Francis and Gilbert both cursed at the same time.

* * *

August the 18th, Francis was to see Matthew for the first time in over ten months. That, in itself, was a little horrifying of a thought, considering how the two brothers lived in the same city and Paris wasn't even that big compared to some of the American cities they'd been to. It would also be Francis' first time attending a real social gathering (besides their disastrous pre-marital Lovina party) in over ten months.

Francis spent over an hour and a half in front of the mirror that morning, using heavy makeup to cover up the dark spots under his eyes (they weren't that noticeable now) and to make sure his stubble was acceptable and didn't make him look homeless and to make sure his hair was neatly tied back with a ponytail (it'd grown long enough for just a short one). He'd also spent fifteen minutes trying to fix Arthur's hair, which wouldn't lie flat, so they attempted to gel it. That made Arthur look like he was part of the Mafia, so then they had to take another ten minutes washing it out and then they were almost late to the ceremony.

In the garden, upon sight, Matthew immediately threw himself at Francis and the two gripped each other tight and laughed until tears were coming out of their eyes. Matthew then composed himself, still grinning, and shook Arthur's hand before taking his place back at the altar. Francis and Arthur had seats right at the front, though they were also seated closest to Alfred, the best man, who stepped off the altar just to talk to them. Francis was pretty sure that that was illegal.

"Isn't this fantastic?" Alfred cried as Lovina made her way down the aisle within moments with Antonio while everyone was gasping. "My little boy is getting married! I really need to get married, too. Everyone is getting married. Even Kuma is getting married."

"He is?" Francis asked with surprise, before he saw Gilbert behind a sea of faces give him the thumbs up.

Francis scanned the crowd. Most of them were people he knew — distant family members, friends he knew Matthew had from college, people from all sorts of cultural backgrounds and ethnic groups. Matthew had a talent for attracting the few people in Paris who spoke more than just French; Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to only attract the people who spoke French, which was unfortunate for him because Arthur couldn't speak a nugget of it.

"Don't you think Matthew is still a little too young to be getting married?" whispered Arthur to Francis.

"You're telling me now?" asked Francis. "We got married when we were twenty-two and some. Matthew's just turned twenty-one."

"Yeah, well, we were pretty young too," scowled Arthur, because he just had to find a way to ruin everything.

"Regretting it?" Francis grinned just as someone snapped at Alfred to take his proper place once more.

Lovina looked beautiful in her wedding gown, and Antonio was reduced to tears by the time he reached the end of the aisle and had to give her away. In his typical passionate way, he grabbed at her face and kissed both her cheeks before taking her hands and then kissing those too; Lovina looked a bit put out at the thought of her makeup being smudged and just scowled a whole bunch, which was right when the cameras started to really flash.

And Matthew, Matthew was equally as stunning. Francis couldn't believe how much his younger brother had grown over the past year or so. Matthew was a few inches taller than him now, his hair about the same length as Francis' but delightfully wavier, his normally pale face tinged with the faintest rosy blush. He was in an extremely expensive suit — Francis could tell just by looking at it, having been turned rather sharp and stingy these past few months — and his shoes were shiny and polished. His eyes were sparkling amethysts.

When the two lovers embraced and were officially declared husband and wife for life, Francis cried.

* * *

"You're such a baby," Arthur scowled, handing Francis another wad of toilet paper as the Frenchman sniffled in the corner of the washroom.

"I'm your baby," said Francis through his tears. Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's just that I missed so much of his life," Francis continued. "Ever since I left for Paris we never really got back the closeness we had before. And now I haven't even the opportunity to make up for that. Now he's a family man — now he'll look to Lovina first rather than me, and then he'll have children, and then he'll have grand-children, and he'll make a family all for himself and I won't be in it."

"Come off it," Arthur said. "You'll be Uncle Francis."

"That makes me sound so old," laughed Francis. "I don't want to be an uncle — then I'd be part of his extended family, not his immediate one anymore. We're _brothers_. We should be closer than just 'the uncle who gives my kids money sometimes'."

"Hey, at least you have the chance to be an uncle to your nieces or nephews. My brothers still aren't married, remember?"

Francis shrugged, ripping at the toilet paper in his hands out of lack of anything else to do and tears to wipe. His makeup was ruined; the foundation was blotchy and darker in certain areas of his face. He had strands of hair sticking up all over the place, too.

"Here," said Arthur, handing him a bottle of pills. "Take your medication."

"I'm too sad to," pouted Francis, but he took them anyway and washed them down with water from the sink. "Wait for me," he said when he saw Arthur about to exit the bathroom, "I have to fix myself up, and then we'll go back outside for the dinner."

Arthur rolled his eyes but waited patiently for Francis to re-apply his concealer and let down his hair and brush it. When he was finished, he stretched out a hand expectantly as though waiting for Francis to take it before he seemed to remember himself. He blushed and dropped it and looked away.

"What?" asked Francis. "We can still do this." He laced his fingers between Arthur's and smirked up at his husband.

"We're two grown men," said Arthur. "I'm not holding hands with you."

"Matthew and Lovina will probably be doing it," reasoned Francis.

Arthur just laughed and pushed Francis away.

The two exited the bathroom and found their seats at their tables, which so happened to be the same table where Alfred and Gilbert and Antonio were conveniently located at. Matthew probably figured that the five hung out with each other so often that they'd want to be sitting next to each other for the whole night, a logic Francis would love to refute. Especially because Matthew had thought it particularly funny to put Alfred in between him and Arthur.

"Alfred, it really doesn't matter what seat Matthew assigned you to," Arthur sighed, standing behind Alfred with his hands on the American's chair. "It's just one seat over if we switch."

"If it doesn't matter, then why do you want my spot so badly?" asked Alfred stubbornly, his head in his arms.

"To —" And Arthur gave Francis, who was on Alfred's right, another _look_. "Never mind. Have this spot for all I care. Because I don't. Care, that is."

Alfred looked smug at his victory.

Francis, meanwhile, was contemplating on whether or not he should give a toast to congratulate the newlywed couple, which he could spot on the dance floor that very moment. It was an outdoor reception, and though it'd be hours before sunset, the lights were already set up and were illuminating the stage on which Matthew and Lovina were situated. They looked gorgeous, the two of them, and Francis wondered whether it would be worth interrupting their moment.

Alfred, apparently, was having the same thoughts — only he reached his conclusion far more quickly than Francis. "Toast!" he cheered, standing up and clinking his butter knife against his wine glass.

When everyone else fell silent and looked to Alfred, it became painfully obvious that the American had no idea what to say next. Arthur coughed pointedly from his left and surreptitiously refolded the napkin in his lap.

"Um," said Alfred. "As you guys know, Mattie's one of my best friends."

Matthew beamed at him from the stage and gave him an encouraging nod. Francis rolled his eyes and tipped his glass over a little bit so that the wine just barely peeked over the edge but didn't spill.

"And I still remember when he met Lovina," Alfred said, which sent a shot of envy and jealousy straight down Francis' spine. With one look at Matthew's puzzled face that seemed to say _What? No you don't, you weren't there_, however, Francis relaxed. It was obvious Alfred was just trying to bullshit his way through the toast because he just wanted some attention.

"Lovina was very beautiful," Alfred said, and Francis could swear, _swear_, that he could see beads of sweat forming on the peak of his hairline. From Alfred's other side, Arthur was making gagging noises, and Francis stifled a laugh.

"And uh, I knew you guys would be perfect for each other," said Alfred. "Like, as soon as I saw you two. You two, I just knew it."

Arthur was beginning to look almost nervous for Alfred, and Francis was beginning to feel nervous for himself too because since they were sitting in such close proximity to the American, any embarrassment of his to suffer was an embarrassment to them. Francis covered his face with his hands.

"Thanks, Alfred!" called Matthew excitedly from the stage, and Alfred visibly loosened up even more.

"Congratulations to the newlyweds, who I knew were gonna get together!" Alfred cheered again before slugging the whole content of the glass down and then slamming it on the table with a flourish. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as everyone applauded and lifted their glasses as well.

"Jeez, you two just couldn't quit, could you?" hissed Alfred fiercely as he pulled his chair back up and sat down. "You try making up a toast on the spot. I double dare you."

Francis excused himself quietly and got out of his chair, feeling Arthur's eyes on the small of his back as he made his way to the stage. He wanted to get a word in with his brother before they were to be inevitably parted once more for God knows how long.

Matthew saw him coming and helped him up, leaving Lovina to stand a bit to the side. Francis pulled Matthew in for another hug, pressing his chin into his brother's shoulder and whispering fiercely in his ear, "I'm so proud of you, Matthew."

"Thanks, Franny," laughed Matthew as they broke apart.

"I only wish I'd been there for you more. I didn't even know about Lovina until Gilbert told me you two were engaged."

Matthew's brows crinkled. "Of course you knew about Lovina. You were there when we met. It was at Bella's birthday party two years ago, and you'd brought me along as a guest."

Now that Francis thought about it, perhaps he _had _been there when they met.

"It doesn't matter anyway," pressed Matthew hurriedly, seeing the worry flit across Francis' face. He took Francis' hands in his own. "What matters is that you're here now. Thanks so much for showing up. For a while up at the altar I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your wedding?" Francis smiled, taking in Matthew's beautiful bright face. Perhaps he's missed him more than he thought he has.

"Well, I heard you were sick. I mean…" Then Matthew frowned and looked Francis up and down. "Hey, you don't look so good. Are you still sick? Has it really been that bad?" He reached up to feel Francis' forehead.

"No, I was crying in the bathroom," said Francis bluntly, brushing Matthew's fingers away from him.

"Over me?" said Matthew.

"Yes, because you seated me at a table with Arthur, Alfred, _and_ Gilbert. The three will be arguing all night long, I just know it."

"Um, is it actually because I put Alfred in between you and Arthur? You know that that was a misprint, right? Just tell Alfred to move over one."

"Arthur tried."

"No, but really, is there something wrong?" Matthew gripped Francis' shoulders tightly, and Francis became aware of just how small he'd become in comparison to his little brother. "You really, really don't look good, Francis. Can we please talk after this? Face to face? You know, about your disappearance for a good four months or so. Are you and Arthur not over that?"

"We're managing. Please let's not talk about those matters anymore — this is your wedding, and I don't want to spoil it." Francis knew that he and Matthew would never end up having that talk.

"Of course." Matthew hesitated. "But three years, huh?" He clapped Francis on the back, smiling. "That's impressive. I hope Lovina and I will last a hundred."

_I hope I can last another ten_, thought Francis wryly. He had no idea how long HIV patients could hold out for before their immune systems finally gave out.

"But Francis, you'll give me a call if anything goes wrong?" asked Matthew just as Francis was turning to leave. "You'll tell me? You still know I'm here for you, right?"

Francis felt like he was about to break down again, and covered Matthew's hand with his own. "Yes," he said, managing to crack a tiny smile. "I know, Matthew."

* * *

"Here," Arthur said, pulling out a bottle of pills from the front pocket of his suit as they walked through the park together just as the sun was beginning to set. "Time to take your medication again."

"Today was a good day," Francis said absentmindedly as he swallowed a couple pills. "It's been a while since I've really interacted with other people, besides you and the sparse company we sometimes have over. Hey, how do I look?"

Arthur snorted. "Like the same as you always do."

"Still sickly?"

"You can't really tell."

"Matthew could."

"Matthew's your brother."

"Matthew's the one person I want to hide it from."

"Does it matter anymore?" Arthur said, walking to lean over a railing on a bridge that overlooked a small lake. From his close proximity, a few streetlights turned on.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Francis, joining him. The two watched tiredly as a couple of ducks waddled onto dry land and shook themselves out and disappeared into the darkness.

Arthur said, "He'll be hurt that you kept it from him for so long."

"You said it'd be a good idea."

"Well, I'm having second thoughts now. What if he's really angry with you?"

"He never gets angry with me."

"Well, don't take that for granted!" Arthur snapped, whipping his head around to shoot Francis a glare.

"Why are you so upset?" asked Francis, trying to get a glimpse of Arthur's face, but the Brit had already looked back down again.

"I'm not upset," muttered Arthur.

"Liar."

"I just," Arthur sighed. "I'm not having very optimistic thoughts right now. It doesn't matter."

"It matters," Francis argued. "Tell me."

Arthur didn't, so Francis took a guess. "You probably still think I'm going to be dying any day now." And when Arthur didn't respond, Francis took that as incentive to continue, bitterly. "God_damn _it, Arthur, I thought we've been over this. Is that the only reason you've been so nice to me lately? Because you're afraid I'm going to topple over any second?"

And sure enough, try as Francis might, he couldn't remember a single time in the past four months when he and Arthur had been upset with each other. They'd been on relatively good terms — teasing each other, surprising each other with meals in bed, listening to each other.

The only thing that differed between their relationship now and their relationship a year ago was that they no longer fought and they no longer had sex.

But neither had they really talked about this problem of theirs, either. Which was perhaps just as bad.

The months that Francis had been gone had scarred them both. Francis liked to imagine that it'd be easy for them to get over it, to heal, to move on — but it seemed even now, even four months later, there were still issues between them, trenches of pain neither could fill with just each others' mere presence.

"Do you know what I did when you went missing, Francis?" asked Arthur quietly. "Nothing. I did nothing."

Francis tensed up. "So?"

"You don't get it. You were injecting God knows what into your system, probably drugged out of your own mind, drowning under booze and tobacco and living in some crummy run-down shack with a couple that didn't give a shit about you because I hadn't thought to give you money or anything when I kicked you out. The apartment belonged to both of us, but you were the one who lived on the streets. And you had no one to talk to — no one to be there for you —"

"It wasn't as bad as you make it seem," said Francis, because he couldn't remember the half of it.

"And what was I doing?" Arthur pressed on, "What was I doing?"

Francis held his breath. Arthur had never told him.

"Nothing, Francis. I went to work and I came home and I ate supper and I took showers and I went to sleep. And then I did it again the next day, and the next, and the next. I was _okay_."

Francis swallowed. "That's good to hear," said he truthfully. "I wouldn't have wanted you to go through what I did. You didn't deserve that — not after what _I'd_ done."

Arthur just shook his head, looking down at his hands. "What does that even mean, Francis? That I got over you? That I'm okay without you?"

And Francis just felt sick on the inside because he'd never considered the idea that Arthur could just move on from him, just like that. But this was a _good_ thing. This meant Arthur could adapt — survive — be alright.

"You have to promise me," said Francis. "That you won't let me hold you back. If — when — I do die, you'll move on. Find someone else. Live your life the way you're supposed to." In the end, what did Francis matter anyway? What was Francis worth to Arthur?

"Francis, it's not like that," Arthur said. "It was as if my mind couldn't even process that you were gone. It was like I was in denial, like I was numb. Like the reality I'd been living wasn't really there, not the way you were."

"Forget it," said Francis, because he just wanted Arthur to be happy. "I'm okay, Arthur," he said. "I'm okay."

"It's not true," Arthur said. "Whatever you're thinking, it's not true."

And Francis could only nod, believing it. However inept Arthur was with dealing with his emotions, there'd never been a doubt in the world that he did not love Francis. And the guilt Arthur suffered for not having been able to show that more — wasn't that enough proof that the insufferable Brit cared?

"There's more," said Arthur solemnly.

"Tell me," he urged.

"What you did with Chel…"

"I thought we weren't going to talk about her," interrupted Francis. "Please, Arthur, I don't want to talk about that. Don't make me talk."

"I'm not." Arthur tucked a strand of loose hair from behind his ears and started to fiddle with the sleeve of his suit; a loose button came off and Arthur looked at it absentmindedly, twirling it around between his fingers. He gave it to Francis without thinking and Francis' fingers closed around it automatically, feeling the way the smooth plastic cut into the lines in his fingers.

"What you did with Chel," said Arthur, looking at Francis. He took up Francis' free hand. "I just wanted you to know that we've been married for three years and have known each other for much longer before that. And that whatever obstacles we encounter we can overcome, because we're grown men and we can make compromises and sacrifices and talk things over. And when I took those wedding vows — I mean, it wasn't a _joke_, Francis —"

"I understand that," said Francis. "Me, too, Arthur."

"I just wanted you to know that I forgive you," said Arthur, and Francis stared back at him blankly. "Yeah, we should probably have talked about Chel more. Crud, we should probably have talked about _everything _more. We're bad at this, but we're learning.

"And I've been thinking a lot — I mean, a _lot_, in the past months after you and I had gotten back together, and what's really important to me, and what's not, and what I expect from you, and what I don't. And what I want out of life.

"And then I decided that I wanted you to know that I forgive you, for what you did with Chel, and that I don't blame you for your sickness and I don't feel like I'm being slowed down at all by you. And that what I really _want _is you, and what I want even _more _is us being happy and growing old and fat sometime. It's a bit cheesy, but in fact," Arthur laughed, running a hand through his messy hair, "In fact, I think we're rather poetic, you and I. It's nice."

"That's just because you're a writer." Francis swallowed thickly.

"And I want to romanticize myself. Maybe."

Francis tried to look elsewhere, anywhere but at Arthur's searching gaze. The ducks returned below the bridge and one quacked loudly and from afar a few crickets were rubbing their legs together and making their eerie sounds.

"I didn't think you'd," whispered Francis.

"Forgive you?" said Arthur. "At all?"

Francis shook his head.

Arthur smiled kindly, gently. "You can be a real idiot sometimes, Francis Bonnefoy." He leaned over and kissed him, willing Francis' lips to part and they did. Francis, through his confusion and inner turmoil, managed to relax in the other's mouth, letting himself go.

"I love you," Francis stuttered when they pulled apart, and Arthur only pulled him back.

He was forgiven.

They could start anew.

End Part II


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4319 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Six years of tranquility, before everything comes falling down again.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

_Six years later_

March the sixth, Francis and Arthur were finally returning back to Paris after their extended vacation from Miami, Florida. They'd figured just the previous year that it'd be better for Francis to remain in warmer areas as often as possible throughout the year, especially during the harshest brunt of winter that revealed itself in January and February.

Francis was busy trying to keep himself warm by wrapping a scarf around his neck immediately after he stepped outside; Arthur, on the other hand, was still in the car and was fumbling for change to give the cab driver. The driver kept muttering in French, and Arthur was turning red trying to keep up with the language.

"Look, sir, slow down. I can't understand a word of your bloody language with the way you're going on."

"Tourists! Holy freaking tourists! Here, here's your change — take it and go. Have a good day, sirs! Holy English tourists," the driver continued to mutter in rapid French.

When the two exited and the vehicle drove away, Arthur took their suitcases from Francis' hands and the two gave Paris a quick glance-over. She hadn't changed in the two months they were gone; snow still covered the roads and every building within sight and people were still bustling about. It was but morning, and Francis was secretly hoping they'd stop by at a pastry store and grab breakfast; he'd grown tired of the typical American cereal-and-milk breakfast that Arthur's Scottish brother had kept serving them when they stayed over there.

Francis adjusted his scarf and followed Arthur as they began to trudge down the street. "I do think it's about time you learned more French," said Francis, more to himself than Arthur. Arthur ignored him.

Francis, having not been watching where he was going, then slipped on a patch of ice on the ground and landed heavily on his rear. Arthur cursed, fumbling so that he could let go of one suitcase (which toppled over) and reach out a hand to help Francis up; Francis grabbed the fallen suitcase on his way up. As he dusted the snow off his coat, he couldn't help but feel like something was amiss.

"Wait," he said to Arthur before going to lean on the nearest building wall. "I just need to catch my breath."

"Old man," Arthur said dully, leaning beside Francis. "Come on, we're just a few more blocks away from the apartment."

"There's something _off_ about this place," admitted Francis. "I don't know what it is. Can you feel it?"

Arthur stood still for a moment before he seemed to decide that Francis was being idiotic and grabbed Francis' coat sleeve. "Don't be stupid," he said.

"No, really." Francis peered around him, seeing that there was an alleyway between two buildings just a few meters away. "Nobody ever comes here," he said. "This place could be crawling with bodies and nobody would ever know. Arthur, why couldn't we have stopped _further _down?" He started to walk towards it, beckoning Arthur to follow.

"Francis, what are you —" said Arthur before they hit the entrance of the alley. "Ugh! What is that smell?"

"The garbage?" Francis suggested, nodding at the two dumpsters leaning against one of the buildings.

"Smells like nobody's taken care of it for _weeks_. Ugh, we should not be smelling that smell in the middle of winter. Who the bollocks even lives here?"

Arthur disappeared for a moment around a corner to get a glance at the front of the buildings; Francis crept closer to the dumpsters. "Hey, Arthur?" he called out nervously, beginning to feel an ice-cool prickling at the back of his neck.

And then he looked behind the dumpster, and froze.

"Old laundry building," came Arthur's voice as the Brit approached. "Hasn't been used in years. The other's a soup kitchen, we're probably just smelling the rotting leftovers, come on —" but then he, too, stopped as his eyes fell upon what Francis was seeing.

The dead body of a woman was lying limp on the ground, her head at an odd angle and her neck almost blue at sight. She was unrecognizable — her eyes were swollen, her mouth agape in a silent 'O', her face thin and gaunt and the sickening colour of decomposing fruit peels. She was sitting against the building, her hands by her sides and her palms upturned, her legs unshaven and bare.

"She must have been here for _weeks_," croaked Francis hoarsely, putting his hands over his mouth.

"Oh, God," muttered Arthur, grabbing Francis' coat again. "The poor girl. Francis, come on, don't look at her —"

But Francis just shrugged him off. "Her smell must have been covered up by all the cold and the dumpsters," he said. "She m-must have been raped or something before she died, look, Arthur —"

"I'm calling the police," Arthur said, flipping open his cellular and standing off a little to the side.

Francis dropped his hands, his face blank and expressionless as he took in her details — the blue on her neck that was rather not from the cold, but from finger-shaped bruises, the thin jacket she had on, the blood on her inner thighs, the dark black hole between her legs open for the world to see.

"Hello? Hi, my partner and I were just walking —" Arthur said, his free hand over his other ear. "What? No. We were just walking and we found a body. Well, find someone who speaks English!"

Francis crouched as he looked closer at the body, reaching out to close her blistering eyelids over her bulging eyeballs, wondering why he wasn't more disgusted. The eyelids immediately crumpled with his touch; Francis shrunk back, frightened, and heard as Arthur yelled, "What the hell, Francis? Don't touch her!"

"I just wanted to close her eyes!" shouted Francis back.

"She's been dead for _weeks_. You shouldn't be — hello? Yes, hi. Wow, your accent is actually atrocious. No —"

Francis stood up and removed his coat, placing it gingerly over her legs. He wondered how she'd died — was it a result of asphyxiation, homelessness, depression? After all, obviously no one had come looking for her since she'd been here for so long. And who would recognize her, either, with her looking the way she did?

There was a piece of paper sticking out from her front jacket pocket, and Francis removed it and unfolded it and looked at it. A heavy calm settled in his stomach; his ears cleared and his head spun. The photo was of a beautiful young woman, a baby, a fair haired man.

Francis quickly stuffed the paper in his pocket as Arthur finished his phone call and strode over. His eyes softened when he saw the corpse once again, and then at Francis' jacket on her legs. "We should wait here for the police to arrive," said Arthur. "Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

Francis nodded.

Arthur looked at his pale face and clutched his arm. "Are you alright? Maybe you should sit down. I told you not to touch her — who goes around touching dead bodies in the middle of nowhere, Francis? I probably have some sanitizer, hold on."

"I want to go home," Francis whispered.

"I know. Me too. Just hold on a few minutes. You don't even have to talk to the police if you don't want — just go sit off to the side."

Francis did. He leaned against the other wall for a little, panting heavily against it, thinking that he was going to throw up but he didn't. He went to sit outside the alleyway and curled up into a fetal position like a little child, rocking back and forth on his feet. He'd never considered this ending — hadn't even thought about it. He'd thought of possibilities where Chel waltzed back into his life and told Arthur things he didn't need to know, possibilities where Chel was pregnant and didn't tell him until some ten years later, possibilities where Chel ended up finding the man in the photo (unless he was dead or something) and lived happily ever after. Not this. Never this.

Francis was very quiet when the police arrived with all their sirens and wailing noises, making himself tiny and inconspicuous pressed against the brick wall, drowning out the sounds of Arthur speaking in ragged French to the officers. For some reason, Chel's death made him feel inconceivably sad, even though she was the woman who essentially ripped apart his life. He had, in that own strange way of his, loved her — not the way he loved Arthur, never, but loved her in those final moments before orgasm, the scarce few seconds before climax when her face was all he saw and she was his entire world. He loved her because she'd made him feel young and free again, wild and unrestrained; he loved her because she'd sent chills down his back and bliss coursing through his body and she'd just been _there, _in the _moment_, with all her beauty and energy and vigor. He loved her when she'd whispered hotly against his skin and when she'd crossed her ankles behind his back and when she'd screamed another's name to the lights until she passed out into oblivion.

He loved her in the way that let him know that, had things been different, then perhaps his apple-pie-life would've been with her; they shared so many commonalities, spoke the same beautiful language, adored so many of the same foods and hobbies and clothing, carried the same burdens. And he'd only seen a part of her, such a small part, the part she revealed in the dusky corners of a French hotel room. And he wondered if this was what it was like to lose a soul mate.

* * *

Francis questioned to himself, as he and Arthur walked the last block to their flat, when the last time it'd been since they went to see the Mirabeau bridge.

"I think a visit is in due order," he explained softly, still shaken up from the event earlier.

"I never understood why you're so attached to that old bridge," said Arthur.

Francis looked at him, shocked. "You aren't?" he asked. He'd always thought that Arthur had felt the same way about the bridge as he did — that it was a place special to them both.

Arthur shrugged. "It was where we started to date, alright. But I always thought it was rather crummy looking. Don't you tell me you're actually _attached_ to the thing?"

Francis was a little hurt, so he said nothing for a while, and waited patiently for it to sink through Arthur's thick skull that perhaps he'd said something dumb. "Well, that's not what I meant," said Arthur, licking his lips. "Of course we can go back to it. First place we'll go, in fact, tomorrow."

_That's better_, thought Francis with some amusement.

"Why are you even bringing this up?" asked the Brit. "It's been such a long time since you last did. I mean, it _was_ where you tried killing —" he stopped.

Francis shook his head. He looked behind their shoulders, wondering if he should tell Arthur. "I think I knew that woman," he said quietly into Arthur's ear.

"Oh," said Arthur. "_Oh_."

Arthur stopped and embraced Francis, letting their suitcases _clunk_ to the ground again. Francis let himself be hugged, soaking up Arthur's warmth, breathing in the smell of Arthur's hair. It was how Arthur always smelled like — oranges and tea and leather. And Arthur just held him, knowing Francis needed this, knowing Francis needed the bridge and the affirmation of their relationship. It didn't matter to Francis that the bridge was where he'd once tried committing suicide some six years ago — he could hardly remember the event. To him, the bridge was still where old love could be renewed.

"Was she someone —?" Arthur hesitated.

"Oh, yes," Francis nodded into Arthur's shoulder. "She was _someone._"

* * *

The next day, rather than going to the Mirabeau bridge, they received a call that Yao was dead.

_Perhaps this is an omen_, Francis thought as he twirled the phone cord in his hands an hour later, Arthur beside him flipping through the phone book and looking for another counselor.

"Don't worry about it," Francis then told Arthur, smiling. "I'm okay."

"You're okay?" asked Arthur.

"Yes. Haven't felt sick or depressed in _years_, besides the minor side effects from the medication. I mean that, Arthur."

Arthur hesitated, before snapping the book shut. "Good," he said, standing to put it away, before catching himself. "Francis, what about _Yao_? He was your therapist for _years_. You might not need another one, but he was your friend, wasn't he? Are you going to be okay from _that_?"

Francis just smiled thinly. "When I said I was okay, I meant it. In every way possible."

Francis was too fucking tired to mourn anymore.

* * *

Francis lied about being okay. He wouldn't know this until he returned to work the next day.

He was a model now for an entirely different clothing line, one that appreciated his skinny frame (he never did end up gaining back all the weight he'd lost) and more effeminate features. At first, his photographer had been a little hesitant with him because of Francis' age — he was nearing thirty-two and they were looking to attract a younger audience — but to everyone's surprise, Francis had looked absolutely fantastic in the photos they printed. He didn't look a day over twenty-five and his pictures ended up appearing on four different fashion magazines across Paris that month. After that, everyone had wanted him — and money was no longer a primary concern for him and Arthur.

Today he had to wear some sort of obscure looking plaid outfit and make it look good — his specialty. In the changing room, however, Francis was suddenly overcome with the burning need to throw up — a feeling that hadn't overwhelmed him in years other than his experience with Chel. He ran to the nearest toilet and coughed and coughed, feeling thick mucus coating his windpipe yet being unable to get it out; he gagged and continued to heave until he managed to throw up the lunch he had earlier that day with Arthur. And then he fell back so that he was sitting on the bathroom floor, holding his head.

That was strange.

"Francis?" asked one of the younger male models, after having apparently heard him from outside. "Are you alright in there?"

"Yes," said Francis, grimacing. "I think I just ate something funny."

"Well, we're going to be late if we don't hurry up."

"I know. Bollocks —"

When Francis exited the stall, there were three other men standing there looking worried and Francis was more embarrassed than he'd ever been, ever. Had they _all _heard him throwing up his left lung?

It got worse before he even managed to exit the room because then he tripped on the stairs on the way out. It was like his legs suddenly gave out on him. The others rushed to help him up but Francis waved them all away and grabbed onto the railing and pulled, but for some reason he no longer had motor control of the lower half of his body for another good, solid eight seconds.

Francis called Arthur to take him home after that.

* * *

"My coworkers think I'm being dramatic," Francis moaned sullenly, holding on to the edge of his seat as the public bus passed over another dip in the road.

"You have a tendency to do that," muttered Arthur, flipping the page of his newspaper.

"I feel sick, Arthur," said Francis. "Really, really sick. This hasn't happened to me since —"

Arthur looked up sharply from his paper. "Since?" he asked, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Since when I first found out," Francis whispered, and Arthur looked lost.

* * *

Life for the Kirkland-Bonnefoys had been decent for the past six years. Lovina and Matthew now had a two year old daughter who looked too remarkably like her mother. They ended up moving somewhere close to Arthur and Francis' apartment, and Matthew visited often, having abandoned their dreams to move back to Canada.

He never did find out about the HIV. He and Antonio and Gilbert were simply told that Francis was more sickly nowadays — something that they found easy to believe, given Francis' track record with catching strange illnesses back when he'd been a child. This gave Francis the excuse to miss whatever social gatherings he wanted, although truthfully his illness had not bothered him in what seemed like forever.

Francis was on a lot of medication nowadays. The treatment for his HIV disease meant that he had to eat at certain times a day and eat only a certain amount. The treatment also gave him constant muscle pains and migraines and a certain fragility about him which meant that Arthur was no longer allowed to hit Francis anymore for fun, because Francis bruised extremely easily and there was the real chance that if he fell over and hit himself in the right place he could fracture a bone. That was all very well and good with the two, because at least they knew that the side effects Francis was experiencing was coming from prescribed medicine, not the illness itself.

The life expectancy for someone living with HIV was, nowadays, relatively long. When he'd been first diagnosed, Francis had not expected to last another decade — now, as he knew, he still had a long way to go before the disease ended up knocking him over, so long as he took his medication piously and took care of his body religiously. His medication was meant to suppress the HIV's ability to replicate and slow it down immensely, and Francis had the utmost trust in Kiku Honda, their new health care provider, to provide him with the best combination of pills he needed.

Which was why, when Francis threw up at his workplace, the question of his HIV being the culprit had not even come to mind.

* * *

The thing about Arthur and Francis' relationship was that they both saw it on different grounds. Ever since their talk on the night of Matthew's wedding, Arthur regretted telling Francis what he did and still punished himself constantly for doing it. More often than not he felt like the shittiest husband in the world, and he was always drinking now, although he never let it show, as if hoping to make up for the four months of emptiness he'd felt back then by suffering himself six years.

It was alright, though, because they dealt. They'd been married with Francis and his HIV far longer than they'd been married without, so Francis' dietary restrictions and his need for exercise was the norm for them. Both still carried the burdens of their pasts — Arthur for not being there for Francis when Francis needed him, and Francis for having cheated on Arthur and for now slowing Arthur down — and sometimes when those memories resurfaced they twinged a little, but it'd been six years and they'd grown up and many things had all been forgotten.

They still weren't perfect, though. They had fights — sometimes more fights in a month than they'd had before all this misfortune came crashing down on then. Sometimes it got so bad that Arthur had to leave to get some fresh air and wouldn't be back for a day or two; sometimes Francis hoped he wouldn't be back at all.

Then sometimes when Arthur turned to look at Francis after these fights all Francis could see was bitterness and hatred in his eyes — _how dare you, how dare you._

* * *

Sometimes Antonio came over and all he could see in Arthur's eyes when he turned to look at Francis was love and worry and forgiveness.

* * *

Once Matthew came over at the wrong time.

"We brought the bread you wanted," he sang as he closed the door behind him, the bread in one hand and little Kuma in the other and big Kuma by his side, all tongue and wagging tail, Gilbird on his head.

"Is Lovina with you?" called Arthur from the kitchen before heading to greet Matthew.

"Nah, Lovi couldn't make it today. I'm just dropping by to give you guys this. But I gotta go — Kuma's got day care in half an hour. Not the dog. The kid. Here, Arthur, take this. Where's Francis?"

Francis appeared from the master bedroom, all puffy eyes and mussed hair and coughing a little. "Who are you?" he asked, squinting at Matthew's shape.

Matthew laughed. "Wow, looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed today."

Arthur bit his lip.

"Oh! Martin. So nice of you to drop by."

Matthew paled, before chuckling nervously. "Well, alright then, Francis," he said, before turning around to leave. "Take care of yourselves, guys."

Only Arthur caught the hurt look on Matthew's face right before he left.

* * *

"He was just kidding," said Arthur over the phone later that night.

"I know," came Matthew's voice from the other end. "I didn't really think Francis would try to pull that kind of joke on me, though. He knows how often I've had my name forgotten back in grade school."

"He had a long night…last night," Arthur said sheepishly.

"I know, Arthur," Matthew laughed. "You don't have to explain his actions to me. I get it. I'm not bothered, I swear. But thank you for calling. That's really sweet."

"You sure you're going to be alright?"

"Yeah, I'm a grown boy," teased Matthew. "It's not a big deal, seriously. Ah, shoot — Kuma — okay, hold on. Wait. Okay, I'm back. I'm actually a little worried about Francis. What's up with him?"

Arthur chewed on his lip until it bled. "I'm not sure," he admitted.

* * *

Arthur took Francis to see Kiku Honda the next day.

"I can't believe I called Matthew 'Martin'," groaned Francis on the way there. "What a shame. How embarrassing. My poor, precious darling. I hope he's not hurt."

"He's not. He's just a little confused."

"I am, too!" cried Francis loudly, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and shaking him. "What's wrong with me, Arthur? It was like I really, honestly thought his name was Martin last night. I was just feeling so light-headed at the moment. How is that possible? You don't think it's the —"

"We'll see," Arthur said grimly as the bus stopped.

* * *

When the tests came back several weeks later, Kiku remorsefully called them over to his office. "The HIV has created a mutation," he said to the couple before him. "It's not — it's not responding to the drugs as well as I'd like for it to. The drugs — they aren't, they aren't — they haven't been, that is —"

"Why weren't you able to figure this out earlier?" Arthur asked, deadly quiet.

"I never suspected," Kiku responded, just as quiet.

Arthur closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "How long, do you think — how long have the drugs not been doing anything?"

Kiku flipped through his paperwork, fingers trembling at the tips but managing to remain professional. "It couldn't have been that long," he muttered, more to himself than Arthur or Francis. "The symptoms would've showed up earlier. I don't know what to tell you, Arthur-san. A year, at most. Maybe two. It couldn't have helped that for the first half-year that Francis had HIV he hadn't taken anything to slow it down. All these things are building up to something greater — something _sinister_."

Arthur shot Francis a worried look, and Francis already knew what Arthur was thinking.

"What do we do?"

"Change his medication. Find another drug combination that'll work for him. From now on, Francis, we'll have your CD4 and viral load checked every few months to ensure that this doesn't happen again. When there's more resistance on the part of the disease, we'll know immediately."

"It'll be hard on him, having to change his medication and having to deal with all the new side effects," Arthur snapped. "Are you seriously suggesting that all this time, Francis hasn't even been treated properly? Are you fucking _kidding_ me? All our money — all our wasted time —"

"Arthur," said Kiku Honda, voice quavering a little as he stood up from his seat. "Arthur-san, please understand —"

"I fucking _can't_!" snapped Arthur, standing to meet his challenge. "We trusted you —"

"It's not his fault," said Francis. "Sit down! This would have happened by the hands of any other doctor too. It's not him."

"Shut your fucking face!"

"No, _you_ shut your fucking face!" yelled Francis before grabbing Arthur's arm and yanking him back down and then coughing into his fists violently at having raised his voice so suddenly. "I can speak for myself. Dr. Honda, it's fine. Thank you."

Before they left, Dr. Honda made Francis run a number of tests, promising results soon.

Neither Arthur nor Francis spoke to each other for the rest of the ride home.

* * *

The demon-child returned that night.

She was sitting on his torso, grinning wickedly. Francis hadn't seen her in years, so he was terrified — he threw her off immediately, screaming and blubbering and clutching at his eyes as though he was hoping to claw them out. "Leave me be!" he screamed. "You don't want me! _You don't want me_!"

"Francis!" cried Arthur, trying to snap him out of it. "Francis, stop it. You're okay. You're alright. You're safe. I'm here."

And Francis, as he calmed down, shaking from the ramifications of the demon-child's visit and wondering what that meant for him, could only sob tearlessly. The HIV had left them alone for the better part of six years, but now it was coming back and it was coming back worse, more powerful and unrestrained and advanced and _evil_.

And they were unprepared and weak and _scared_.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 5179 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Everything is just a matter of perspective.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

The past six years, Francis and Arthur have had to be creative when it came to their sex life.

One of the things that'd brought them together in the first place was the way they just clicked together when it came to the matters and affairs of the bedroom. Sex was something they did often, and it'd always been fiery and passionate and intense — and it was, of course, one of the things that'd torn them apart in the end when the fire started to die down.

Of course, their relationship wasn't just built on the physical aspect. They were married now, for Chrissake — they _have _been for some nine years. They wouldn't ever make the mistake of assuming that they'd separate or become too domestic due to a lack of sex — not like the way Francis panicked and did all those years back. Francis liked to think that he'd matured somewhat, become more knowing, more experienced. In fact, if he looked back at it all, he could see plainly all the times when he'd been an idiot and all the times he shouldn't have listened to Gilbert. His younger self was too foolish.

So living with Francis' HIV could have been entirely possible to them without sex. That is — without penetration. They still indulged on a regular basis, and they were always careful to use a condom no matter what they were doing. Arthur had become more open and willing with Francis, too, not like the way he'd shut himself off and become reserved like before.

They decided to stop whatever they were doing after Kiku's admittance.

Not because there was a larger chance that Francis could pass on the disease to Arthur now that he was more sickness-prone, but rather because soon enough Francis was far too weak to do much at all. He tired too easily and was almost always nauseous and coughing — which, as Arthur later learned, was a huge turn-off.

* * *

The new drug regime that Francis was undergoing was strenuous and stressful. At first his body couldn't handle the change — he'd end up forcefully triggering his gag reflex to throw it back up, much to Arthur's chagrin (he'd had to lock the door and do it, all with Arthur pounding on it from outside) and getting horrible, dizzying migraines. He couldn't miss a single dose of his medicine, either, because missing even just one would give the infection a larger chance to consume him whole.

Arthur was becoming desperate. He put Francis on lock down — Francis pulled out of his job, stopped making dinner, stopped doing anything more tiring than lifting a cup of water to his face or moving about in the bathroom himself. "This shouldn't have happened," he kept muttering whenever Francis swooned or coughed blood. "You should never have progressed to this stage. Don't you get it, Francis — you're down to your last defenses. Aren't you worried? Can you just do what I say for once in your life and go get another drink of water?"

Needless to say, Arthur's panic was starting to make Francis panic, too.

Francis went to see Kiku one more time because Kiku seemed worried about something and wanted to test Francis for any disease that may be even the least bit possible, just in case. Kiku especially concerned himself with taking a chest x-ray, going out of his way to ensure that they did it first thing in the morning before anything else. Francis had already resigned himself to whatever his fate may be, though that didn't stop him from being scared about losing his memory — especially long-term memory — and his ability to function properly and that he may shrink into a coma-like state, never to resurface.

Was that Arthur would worry.

"I'll call you in a week," said Kiku Honda. "And then we'll talk. Until then, please continue to take care of yourself."

So Francis put on a brave face, day after day after day, even as his fingers trembled violently with simple actions such as putting toothpaste on his toothbrush or buttoning up his coat jacket. Luckily for the latter, it was no longer winter, so Francis no longer needed to wear coat jackets, and that was one less concern for him to fret about, and one less concern he had to hide from Arthur.

Then there came the day when Francis and Arthur finally realized that it was time to tell Matthew everything.

* * *

Arthur invited Matthew over for dinner, alone.

"What's the occasion," Matthew laughed, his right hand carrying a wine bottle — Francis' favourite. Arthur took Matthew's coat and Matthew looked around himself and asked, "Where's Francis?"

"Taking a shower," Arthur said grimly. "We can start dinner without him, if you'd like."

"Let's wait," said Matthew, still-smiling. "I mean, it wouldn't be fair for us to eat without him there to see us enjoy his food, right?"

Arthur swallowed. "Actually, I cooked."

"You cooked? Wow, Arthur," Matthew said, looking genuinely pleased.

"You'll like it, lad," Arthur said, nodding. The boy just had something _about_ him that made others feel so at ease, so comfortable in their own skins. It was like he'd never judge you — would accept you no matter what size or shape or colour you were. It was like he was ever-patient, ever-kind, ever-willing to listen to all your troubles and woes. His presence was soothing, and Arthur took advantage of that and took in some deep meditative breaths while he still could.

It was funny because he was completely the opposite of Francis, whose leer and suggestive smirk could make the socially inept wish a thousand times that they could just melt into a puddle and drain away. At least, that was how Arthur had felt back when he'd first met Francis. Now he at least understood that Francis didn't try to make others feel uncomfortable on purpose; it was just that he was a little _too_ comfortable with himself.

Or at least, he used to be.

Arthur shook off those despondent thoughts and headed to the kitchen, where he beckoned Matthew to sit down. Matthew looked pleased with the table setup, and immediately launched into discussion about how much he loved what they'd done to the flat with Francis' new salary.

"I'd always wondered why you guys didn't move to a bigger flat after Francis became so popular," said Matthew, gesturing around him.

"Well, this place just felt too much like home, I guess," laughed Arthur, really thinking _Or because in no time at all we're going to be going back to the same meager salaries we had before_. "Plus, you literally live across the street. It's much too convenient like this for us to move away."

"I guess," Matthew laughed. "You've really made me and Lovi and Kuma feel like family, haven't you? I'm grateful for that. Lovi's side of the family is equally as kind — Antonio and Bella host parties all the time."

"Well, of course," said Arthur. "You're Francis' brother. That means a lot in itself."

"Yeah? I wish you could get to know our sister a little better, too. You'd like her. She reminds me a lot of you, in a way."

"How so?" Arthur smiled pleasantly, enjoying the small talk.

"She wears glasses, like you," grinned Matthew. "She's kinda like you, femmefied."

Francis chose that moment to enter the living room, dressed neatly, looking small and nervous. He brightened when he saw Matthew, and Matthew did the same — they crossed the living room to embrace each other, and Francis quickly kissed both of Matthew's cheeks while asking how he was.

"I'm fine, thank you," said Matthew. "And you?"

"Better," Francis shrugged, lying.

"Better?" Matthew's brows pinched.

"Oh, I was sick for a while —"

"Again, huh? Maybe you should be seeing someone for that. It seems like you're always sick, in one way or another."

Francis looked at Arthur, and Arthur shook his head. The Brit crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the two stoically. Francis took Matthew's hands and led him to the couch.

"We've something to tell you, Matthew," said Francis seriously, unsure of how to say it. Matthew's brows furrowed even deeper; he looked genuinely worried, and he seemed to tense up, as though bracing for the impact.

Francis blinked rapidly a few times; he was all at once coughing violently, spasming on the spot. _What's going on?_, he asked himself, trying to keep his panic under control, trying to turn his head away from Matthew's concerned face, but all that resulted in was Arthur rushing to his side.

"Francis?" Arthur asked worriedly, but the Brit was fading away, turning blurrier and blurrier. He had four eyes…then six…then eight…then Francis couldn't see him at all anymore.

Francis tried to open his mouth, to tell the two that he was alright, but nothing was coming out. _Matthew_, he imagined his voice say seriously. _Please don't be upset. This is just something your big brother has to do. _

And there Matthew was, fourteen years old at the boarding dock, looking angrier than Francis had ever seen him look in his life. _You can't seriously be leaving_, he'd cried, _Marseille is your home! Just because Mother is dead doesn't mean you can go traipsing about anywhere you'd like. You still have responsibilities; you still have me! _

_Matthew, I really have to go! This isn't a time to be chastising me for my decisions. Just be brave for me, okay? _

Francis had the strangest sensation that he was falling over backwards; he tried to remain upright by putting his hands on Matthew's shoulders. _Don't make me feel guilty for leaving, _he'd pleaded.

_What's there for you in Paris, anyway? What happened to going to college here _— _what happened to staying here? We'll be closer to our sister, and our father, and all your friends are here. What's there for you in Paris?_

_You don't understand, Matthew, _he'd said, _It's Paris! The city of lights and wonder! It's the Hollywood of the French world _— _it's the center of the world of fashion and music and cinema _—

And then, then Matthew had slapped him, fast and hard, on his right cheek. _Nothing's worth staying for? _He'd spat. _Not even me?_

And then Matthew had started to back away…

_Matthew, _Francis had called to him, _Matthew, Matthew, Matthew, come back… _

_It's because of Arthur, _Matthew had cried, and Francis was a little confused. How did Matthew know who Arthur was? _It's all because of Arthur. It's all Arthur's fault _— _Arthur, this is all your fucking fault _—

_Don't swear _— _are you an uncultured American _—

_We just got back together, and now you have to leave again. Why is that? Fuck you, Arthur Kirkland, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!_

_Bollocks _— _Matthew, please listen to me _—

_Why didn't you tell me? Why the hell didn't you tell me?_

_It's none of your business!_

_I'm his brother, of course it's my business! _

— And then Francis emerged, taking huge, gasping breaths, hearing the yelling just a room away.

"I hate you!" Matthew was screaming, and there was the sound of something shattering, and then something slamming against a wall, what was it? — "How could you? How dare you? Who gave you the right?"

"Francis did! We made the decision together!"

"Don't you dare go fucking pushing this on him! Six years, Arthur, six fucking years, and you knew and he knew and who the hell else knew? Everyone knew, except me! Except his brother! How is that fair?"

"It's not about fair, _boy_, it's about Francis' privacy and whom he chooses to disclose the information to —"

"He would have told me!" shouted Matthew, and his voice sounded like it was growing hoarse and ragged. "And if he didn't want to at first, then you should have convinced him otherwise! It was _my _right to know, _I'm _his brother, _I've _been there for him his whole life — I've known him for _years _longer than you, _I _should have been there! I should have been there the entire time — Oh, God…Oh, God…" And then it sounded like Matthew was crying, choking up, coughing to find some air for his lungs.

Francis was frozen to the bed, his muscles unresponsive.

"Matthew —" came Arthur's soothing voice, and then —

"Get away from me," spat Matthew. "I mean, I can understand that you'd want to keep it a secret at first, but I'm his family too. I mean, six years? And you're only telling me _now_, only when it's gotten to the point where he's collapsing right in front of me? What would you have done if he'd never been diagnosed with AIDS — would you have kept on hiding it from me? When Francis was being lowered into his grave, would you have told me _then_, would it have been my right to know _then, _when he's _dead_ —"

There was the sound of skin smacking skin, and everything was quiet. Francis held his breath.

"Don't you dare," Arthur said, voice shaking. "He won't, he can't —"

"You're selfish, you know that," said Matthew, all quiet and whisper-soft again. "You're selfish to have kept this all to yourself, to have thought that you were the only one in the whole world to give a damn about him."

And then, finally, the sound of scraping feet, and the sound of a door slamming violently shut.

* * *

Francis laid awake for a very long time in bed, just staring out of his window and coughing into his arm once in a while. He was as tired as though he'd been the one to do all the screaming, all the arguing, although all he'd really done was lie here like a coward because he was afraid of getting between the two people he loved. And his chest hurt — really, _really _hurt.

He wondered if Matthew would have gotten that angry and upset with him if _he'd_ been the one to disclose the information, not Arthur, if he'd been strong enough to hold on just a minute longer before passing out. He wondered if Matthew had simply blown up the way he did because he still held some repressed, pent-up resentment towards Arthur from the past — after all, it was indeed Arthur who'd led him away from Marseille, Arthur who'd stolen the brotherly relationship that he and Matthew had once shared. It was just like the night of Matthew's wedding, when Francis had been experiencing pangs of jealousy towards Lovina when he should have been feeling unconditional joy.

Francis had never witnessed Matthew blow up like that before. He supposed the boy deserved it, after all this time of being understanding and silent around other people. He'd always known that Matthew carried with him a little candle of strength, just waiting to be lit, like it was whenever he got really into the things he was passionate about (hockey, for one). He'd never expected for Matthew to take out this anger on another _person_.

Arthur was gone. Francis could tell; the flat was too eerily quiet otherwise. Arthur had probably left the flat sometime soon after Matthew did, just to be on his own for a while. Francis could wager a guess as to where he was — either the nearest bar or the Mirabeau bridge — but he was in no hurry to get out of bed to follow him. Matthew was probably in his own flat by now, crying his eyes out to a confused Lovina and Kuma. Matthew had always been somewhat of a crybaby.

Francis got out of bed, throwing first one leg out of the covers, and then the other, slowly. He quickly left a note for Arthur in case the Brit came back early, and then shrugged on a sweater and shuffled outside.

Matthew really did live only a street away. If Francis had his way, he'd be over daily — but Matthew had other obligations now, what with his wife and child and aging dog. Francis had been right with his worries the night Matthew got married to Lovina — he'd lost the chance to really get to know his brother again.

He knocked on the door softly with the back of his hand, carefully, as though hoping it wouldn't crumble on touch. The door opened almost immediately; Francis was face to face with a scowling Italian woman, who simply stood aside and pointed him in the general vicinity of her living room. Francis nodded at her gratefully, though she just rolled her eyes and closed the door.

"You made him cry," she accused flatly as she picked up her child from the floor and disappeared with her into one of the rooms. Matthew was sitting on their living room couch, his ever faithful dog next to him with his head in his owner's lap.

"I know," Francis said softly just before Lovina left.

Francis knelt down in front of Matthew and put his hands gently on the other's knees. Matthew looked blankly up at him.

"I'm sorry you had to hear all that," said the other. "I hadn't meant to get so loud. But I felt so —"

"Angry? Upset? Betrayed? You had every right." Francis looked away in shame, his eyes falling on Kumajiro, who padded away with his tail between his legs. "I'm sorry."

Matthew shrugged. "You did what you felt was right," he said, and Francis was surprised at the lack of bitterness in his tone.

"I should have told you," said Francis. "Everything."

"That Christmas, when you called me —"

Francis nodded. "That was the day I found out. _After_ I called you, granted."

Matthew wiped the corners of his eyes with a bit of sleeve. "I forgive you," he said. "I'm not really upset anymore — just worried, for your sake."

"And Arthur?"

"I have to apologize for blowing up at him. He didn't deserve it — he was just trying to protect you, that's all. I would have done the same with Lovi. I guess." He shrugged.

"And everything else?"

Matthew smiled, though there was no trace of happiness in his eyes. "What do you mean, everything else? You mean your affair, and your depression, and your suicide attempt? Nothing about that at all. I'll just have to live with myself knowing that I was on the phone with you literally hours before you jumped off that bridge and I could have done something but I didn't. You called _me_, Francis. You wanted _my _help. If you'd been successful it would have been on me."

"It's not your fault," Francis protested. "It was all mine."

"When're you going to stop lying, Francis?" asked Matthew. "When're you going to stop keeping secrets?"

Francis said nothing.

"Six years," Matthew said. "Six years of not knowing, and now —"

"And now I'm one foot in the grave," laughed Francis. "I'm sorry we lost so much time."

Matthew nodded, though both knew that 'sorry' couldn't bring back a damn thing. "I am, too."

* * *

Francis asked Matthew to keep one more secret for him before he left.

"Don't tell Arthur I was seeing things," he said. "The night I jumped. I must have told you, right?"

Matthew hesitated.

"It was Mother," Francis pressed. He could say this because Matthew could _understand_; they were of the same blood, after all. "I saw Mother that night. She pushed me."

"I've been wondering all these years," said Matthew. "We never did end up talking about your four months of disappearance or that you avoided me for another half-year after that or that you kept acting suspicious and you were always strangely sick. And especially that phone call; I had nightmares about it for _weeks _afterward because nobody was telling me what was going on and I was always being kept in the dark. And I wanted to push it — really I did, but I felt like it wasn't my place. I don't anymore. I hate you, Francis, you and all your secrets. But I won't tell," he promised. "Because I get it, now — why you felt the need to hide those things from me."

Francis leaned to kiss Matthew on the cheek, very gingerly, like handling a porcelain doll. Matthew had been hurting all this time, too. And still he had remained the ever-strong soldier, burying doubts and insecurities in order to guard his brother's quiet because he believed in Francis before anyone else did and Francis had let him down.

* * *

"Francis?" Matthew asked suddenly, when Francis was halfway out the door.

"Yes?"

"Don't push me away again," he said, and smiled. Francis just pulled him in for a hug.

"Promise to take care of Arthur if something happens to me," Francis said. "Promise, and I won't ever not tell you anything. I'll call every time I bruise myself."

Matthew grinned. "I promise."

"Do you swear?"

"I swear!"

"I mean it — you can't let him get away with anything."

"Francis," Matthew laughed. "Get out."

* * *

"There's no one else who has to know," Arthur said as he scrambled around the house in a flurry, vacuuming every square inch of the floor as Francis watched dispassionately from the couch. "So it's not like we need to leave this flat. As a matter of fact, if we're not leaving this flat, then I think we should move. As in, _move _move. Find a small house out in the country, yet close to Paris. In case, you know. Emergencies. And Kiku. I think we should pay Kiku to come live with us."

"How do you suggest we get the money?" asked Francis to humour the other, massaging his chest.

"I can work two jobs. It doesn't really matter."

"Two jobs doing what, out in the country?"

"Well, I don't mean for us to be completely secluded from everyone. We can find one of those quaint towns to move to. I mean, somewhere close to Paris, of course — always close to Paris. That's important."

Francis hummed thoughtfully, tongue in his cheek, actually starting to consider the idea — not of moving to one of those villages, dear Lord no. But — "What about Marseille?"

"What _about_ Marseille? How is that any different from Paris? I want to go somewhere with less people around."

"What about Matthew?" asked Francis, before realizing he'd made a grave mistake — they hadn't talked about Matthew, not since Arthur had come home red in the face and drunk and with a black eye at one in the morning the night before.

"What _about_ Matthew?" said Arthur, tone clipped.

"He's my brother," Francis said calmly, making a swirling motion with his finger on his knee. "I don't want to leave him."

"I've had to leave all my brothers — why can't you do the same?"

"Because it's _different_."

"How's it _different_?"

"God, Arthur," Francis said with exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. "Will you quit being such a child? Matthew had every right to be upset — maybe not at you, wrong place wrong time wrong person. But he's over it by now —"

"How would you know?"

"I went to see him."

"You went to _see _him?"

"Yes, alright?" snapped Francis, getting off the couch. "After your stupid fight I got out of bed and I went to see him."

"You went to see _him_, but not _me_?"

"Arthur, you can't make me feel like I'm choosing between my brother and my husband!" said Francis. "You were going to be okay — it's not like you were _really_ hurt by anything, other than Matthew's yelling. But Matthew just found out _everything_. I had to be there for him — you know I did. It wouldn't have been fair if I went after you instead." And then, because his lungs felt like they were about to collapse on him, Francis coughed again and again, hacking into his fist, thankfully silencing Arthur in the process.

Arthur nodded, going to sit beside Francis and rubbing and patting his back. "Fine," he said. "Fine, I get it." Then he left the flat, just like Matthew had, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The third week of April, instead of lounging around their flats, they went to see Kiku, who was to give them the details of what he'd found out.

"After the initial symptoms of HIV, your immune system managed to suppress the virus from replicating too much with the help of your medication," said Kiku slowly, his hands folded in his lap, watching as Arthur and Francis ingest the information. "We can assume that the six months you went without treatment and with poor care of your body helped speed the replication process by a lengthy amount."

"Kiku," Arthur said from beside Francis.

"Arthur-san, please let me finish. Francis, just a month ago, you felt pretty good — until you became overwhelmed with fatigue and started to see things."

"Random children," Francis said hurriedly before Arthur could ask questions. "Not anybody I knew. I'm not sure why."

Kiku nodded. "There's something else," he admitted. "I wasn't a hundred percent certain what we were dealing with at first — I'm still not, which is why I'd like to run a few more tests. Lung biopsies. A Gallium scan — tell me, Francis, how have your lungs been feeling these past few weeks?"

"Alright," Francis said nervously. "I've been coughing more."

"Cut the crap," snarled Arthur. "Just tell us your _suspicions_, at least, so we can know and be prepared. I mean, you're probably right, so why put it off? We want to get Francis treated as soon as possible."

"I received the results from your x-ray," Kiku said to Francis. "There was an increased opacification in the lower lungs, especially that of your right one. The samples I took earlier were stained and began showing characteristic cysts. Because what you may have is also present in the bodies of the general population, albeit in lesser amounts, I wanted to brush off my concerns as simple overreactions — but of course, being a doctor, I had to investigate.

"Most likely you have a case of pneumocystosis, which manifests primarily in the lungs of HIV-infected individuals — it's a type of fungus, an opportunistic infection that took advantage of your weaker immune system brought about by some of your medication."

"What is that?" asked Arthur, confused.

"Pneumocystis pneumonia."

"Bless you," said Francis, just as Arthur threw up on Kiku's shoes.

* * *

Arthur once had a cousin that had AIDS.

Arthur was eight when the other had been thirty-three, and that was around the time when the cousin was diagnosed. The cousin was a virgin. He'd never had sex in his life and he was married to another asexual with whom he had fallen in love with. They always talked about adopting kids or having sex simply to produce them, but they never ended up going through with their plans. They did own a dog, though, a big mutt with folded ears.

The cousin went to church twice a week and read his Bible for twenty minutes every day and prayed before every meal. He volunteered for three hours on Saturdays at the soup kitchen and another two hours at the homeless shelter. He loved his job — he was a biology teacher at the local high school who believed faith could exist alongside science, and he was a regular contributor to the city newspaper's editorial section because he liked to engage himself in the discussions of politics and business.

It was unfortunate because he was a good man. Arthur wasn't sure about his cousin's personal life, since he didn't know him very well — he couldn't vouch for him on terms beyond what he saw and heard regularly — but from what he did know he knew that his cousin was kind and loving and hard-working. Then some med student posing as an experienced registered nurse had shot him in the arm with a used needle.

The cousin died just seven years later because nobody had even known that he had HIV. He'd never shown any symptoms — or perhaps he'd just brushed them off as insignificant and trivial to the going-ons of other people's lives. It was a miracle that he'd survived as long as he did, actually, because he fought AIDS for about three years with the medication he'd finally decided to take. Unfortunately, it'd been too late by that time, and the virus had already taken over. The opportunistic infection that'd been his reaper had been something called _pneumocystis pneumonia_, a rather common lung infection that frequented AIDS and cancer patients.

The whole family mourned. Arthur attended the funeral and wished he'd gotten to know the cousin a bit better. Actually Arthur was one of the lucky ones, because he was one of the few whose lives _hadn't _been deeply and meaningfully touched by this cousin and thus the loss of his presence had no real impact on Arthur's life. Well, the cousin _did_ give Arthur a couple dozen pounds every year on his birthday, which was generous.

Arthur thought about him a lot in the months that followed — if God took him to heaven, if God wasn't really there and all of the cousin's faith had been wasted, if the cousin's once-students thought that he was disgusting and repulsive because he'd never gotten a chance to explain to them that the HIV contracted wasn't from sex, it was from a needle, before he was hospitalized. And also maybe because HIV and AIDS and any sexually transmitted disease used to be more widely regarded back then as a 'gay disease' and homosexuality used to be more widely regarded back then as inhuman and abnormal.

Arthur didn't think about him so much when he moved to France and met Francis — the cousin had actually completely slipped his mind, even when Francis told Arthur that he was HIV positive.

Now Arthur remembered him again, all seven years of having known that cousin, and mourned that he'd ever forgotten him, and wondered where he'd be if he'd never gone to the clinic that day to get the annual influenza shot. Probably with four children, all from different ethnicities. They'd be teenagers around this time, all rebellious and free-spirited and on sex-drugged highs. Or maybe not.

Sometimes Arthur too had considered raising children with Francis. They'd applied for a child almost eight years ago but they'd never gotten a call so they'd eventually given up on the hope. People were less homophobic nowadays, so it was very possible that perhaps simply nobody liked their applications. It wasn't like they had very stable jobs anyway or a good house environment to raise a child in. That didn't stop Arthur's mind from briefly passing over the thought that perhaps this time, _this _time they'd be lucky whenever they received mail or a call that they hadn't been expecting. It hadn't bothered him that much, not like it would plague him now and in the future when he thought about his cousin and AIDS and Francis.

Point was, everything was just shot to hell now.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4988 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die. - Leonardo da Vinci

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes:

1. I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

2. Dear Katt1848 -

Firstly, thank you for taking your time to review and point out your concern. I'm going to take advantage of this and respond to your review publicly in case anyone else was confused by the distinction, as well as explain a little about HIV itself. Any and all misunderstandings are, no doubt, entirely my fault, so I will do my best to clear a few things up here.

TGND takes place over a period of what, 6 or 7 years? At the beginning of the story, Francis is diagnosed with HIV, which, of course, is in no way incurable - unless treated improperly, which I believe I have tried to make as apparent as possible. HIV can be contracted through the transmission of body fluids, some of which include blood, semen, and breast milk. As we can infer, Francis probably got his HIV from either blood or semen. But I digress.

For a good portion of the story, Francis spends his time away from both Arthur and the medication that can allegedly save his life, in order to try to cope with both his guilt and the staggering number of questions that are running through his mind. There are three stages of HIV that Francis makes it through by the time C12 ends - acute infection, clinical latency, and acquired immunodeficiency syndrome. The majority of the time, acute infection happens to a person two to twelve weeks following the initial contraction of HIV and for two to four weeks at a time. Symptoms include severe fever and other opportunistic infections. Francis' time spent away from Arthur covers the entirety of this period, a period in which Francis receives _no _help and _no _real professional treatment.

The second stage is clinical latency, which can last from as little as three years to over twenty, though the average is eight. For some time that Francis spends away from Arthur, he goes through this stage - a stage in which the disease becomes asymptomatic and, for the most part, hides itself away. For the six year interlude between C10 and C11, Francis lives under this stage. He takes his medication piously for the majority of this time.

As explained in C11, however, HIV can create mutations that completely ignore the defenses and precautions taken against it. Maybe some people don't receive the specific treatment they need, or can't afford to or don't have access to the luxuries of health care like we do here. Other mistakes can be made. In any case, Francis is given a whole new drug regime that doesn't work and then is diagnosed specifically with AIDS. AIDS, as we all know, is highly mutagenic and extremely dangerous and also, unfortunately, totally and utterly incurable (as of now). AIDS' existence in Francis is firstly noted because of Francis' development of PCP (pneumocystis pneumonia), an infection that takes advantage of the weak and damaged immune systems of people who have cancer or HIV. _  
_

It is at the end of C12 that AIDS is even mentioned at all - through Arthur's memory of a cousin who lives and dies with it. The reason this cousin dies is because he'd lived several years without having even known that _HIV_ was living in his body in the first place until it became _AIDS, _because in some cases, symptoms of HIV don't even show up.

I hope this clarifies any confusion and informs you all a little better on the doings and goings of this story. Again, Katt, thank you for expressing your uncertainty. These long blocks of text were in no way written to belittle and diminish your impression, but rather simply to explain what I know and what I'm working off of to write TGND. I hope to hear from you again sometime.

* * *

Francis was put on steroid hormones and antibiotics for at least the next three weeks of his life.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Francis' body didn't react so violently to the latter; he began having late-night chills and severe sweating, as well as abdominal pain and diarrhea and terrible, terrible insomnia.

Francis would try to lull himself to sleep by watching the comforting rise and fall of the Arthur's ribs from his side of the bed, try to count down from a hundred and recite the numbers of pi, but to no avail — his body wouldn't let him sleep. Francis was tired; after the first three days of not having slept at all he was literally sleep-walking around the house in the daylight hours. His eyes would be blinking shut but he could never fall into unconsciousness. He simply _couldn't_. He tried and tried and tried but he _couldn't_. And if he finally managed to, it'd only be for a few hours at a time before he would wake up again, disoriented and sweating profusely and even more tired than before.

It was absolute torture. Soon Francis was no longer coherent of the world around him; he was falling asleep at the dinner table and lying in bed with his head hanging over the side five hours after Arthur had first started to snore. He was making himself coffee even though he knew that that wouldn't help him at all because if he was going to be awake he wanted to be _actually_ awake, not just as a bumbling zombie who had no idea what he was doing.

Arthur suggested giving him sleeping pills. They worked for a little bit, until they didn't and Francis wanted to take _more more more_. Then Arthur hid them because he was afraid Francis would take too much.

Death sounded pretty damn good, though. It was eternal sleep.

On the fourth day, Francis started to hallucinate.

"Arthur, look, my hand is going through," he said, frowning, as he drew his wrist back and forth in a sawing motion through the wood of the dining table.

Arthur looked. "Francis, stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm not! My hand is going through the fucking table! Look —" Francis grabbed for Arthur's hand, to bring it closer to his, for Arthur to _feel_, but Arthur just pulled away sharply.

"We have to see Kiku," he said. "Knock you out or something. Get you _sleep_."

"I'm so fucking tired."

Arthur's face softened. "I know," he said softly, before taking Francis by the arm. "Let's go to bed."

"I can't sleep."

"We'll try."

In the bedroom, Arthur wrapped his arms around Francis' torso and clasped them behind; he brought Francis' head to his chest and buried his nose in Francis' hair. The hair never did end up back to its original length; Francis had one day come to the stage in his life when he realized that having long hair as a thirty-year-old model was not only no longer fashionable but also extremely inconvenient.

"Dream sweet dreams for me_,_" whispered Arthur, his voice deep and slow and soothing, "Dream sweet dreams for you. Close your eyes and I'll close mine…"

"Your singing's terrible," muttered Francis tiredly, his remark muffled by Arthur's shirt.

Arthur just planted a kiss on Francis' head. "Be quiet, or I'll lick you," he warned.

"You're so immature," laughed Francis softly, before he promptly fell asleep in Arthur's arms, listening to the beat of the Brit's heart and feeling the rubbing the other was doing gently to his back and drowning in the warmth of everything so very distinctly _Arthur_.

* * *

Francis' medication did nothing to stop his coughing or his shortness of breath. Francis wondered sometimes if he was taking the right medication at all.

It always felt like there was a thick layer of mucus coating his trachea and pharynx, which was probably not unlikely, yet Francis could never cough it up no matter how hard he tried. It'd gotten to a point where every time he took in a breath he had to reach a little farther, inhale a little deeper, to provide his lungs with the sufficient air he needed, and every time he did so he could _feel_ the mucus in his throat and _hear _it. It was the most disgusting thing in the entire world.

He took showers as though he was baptizing himself; he'd rub down every inch of his body as though hoping to clean the exterior if he couldn't the interior. He would sometimes stand in front of the mirror after he was done, dripping wet and naked with his hair clinging to his ears, and he'd rub away the fog on the mirror and just stay there looking at himself.

It was like being transported six years ago when he'd first been diagnosed with HIV. He was constantly sick now and he hated that, hated that he couldn't do anything he wanted to and that he had to always watch himself and be careful and never overexert himself.

He hated everything about the disease and everything he'd done before. Arthur had forgiven him but the stars hadn't, and even today the ramifications of Francis' sin was still working to rip him to pieces.

* * *

Once, on a nice day outside, Arthur and Francis went for a walk and they passed a construction site and Francis tripped and fell on a shard of glass.

It was ridiculous, the amount of pain he was in. When Arthur dragged him over to the side of the road and sat him down on the curb and they folded up the hem of his right pant leg, they could see a huge four-inch gash running down his inner calf and gushing blood like it wouldn't ever stop. It'd always been more difficult for Francis' blood to coagulate and form scabs, but this time Francis knew that he definitely wouldn't be recovering any time soon.

"Jesus H. Christ," Arthur said, grimacing. "What did you even fall on?"

"That glass piece over there," Francis said faintly, turning white at the sight of his torn flesh. Arthur went over to pick it up, turning it over in his hands and examining it. It wasn't too big — it only measured a few inches length-wise, but it was sharp on all edges and its blades looked dangerously strong.

"At least this didn't get stuck in your leg," Arthur pointed out. "Hey, do you think we can sue for this?" He looked up hopefully at the rubble a few meters away from them.

"I think I might need stitches," Francis gasped as he mopped away the blood with his fingers and then wiped his fingers on his jeans. "And I might get an infection."

Arthur nodded and tore a bit off the bottom of his thin shirt, which he used to wrap around Francis' calf. Francis grabbed his arm before he could, however, and Arthur met his gaze with a surprised look.

"Be careful," Francis said seriously, and Arthur understood.

"I don't have any open wounds on me, look," Arthur said, smiling, as he turned over his hands for Francis to see. Satisfied, Francis leaned back as Arthur fixed up his leg and then tied the cloth with a neat knot. He allowed himself to be pulled upright by Arthur's hand and then allowed himself to slowly hobble by Arthur's side all the way back to their flat.

* * *

One of the smaller gossip magazines Francis had been working for prior to his quitting somehow, inexplicably, found out that he was terribly sick and decided to devote a full page of Francis' mysterious absence in their next issue of May.

_Once one of the more popular models, Francis Kirkland-Bonnefoy recently decided to quit the magazine and is now living as a recluse with his husband in a run-down shack on the outskirts of Paris, as one of our editors reported. What's his secret?… _

…_last time we saw him, Bonnefoy was throwing up in a bathroom stall. Originally we'd thought that he had stage fright, but it turned out that the model was simply looking for attention by feigning sickness at home, a ploy not lost on other hundreds of different models who've tried the same thing before…_

…"_Francis could have anorexia," one of his fellow co-models reported when asked about the incident. "He's always been extremely skinny and defensive about his weight, and he watches his calorie intake like crazy. Maybe he was just scared we'd find out, and we did. If that's the case, then personally I believe that it's better for him to be gone. We can't have him setting bad examples to our readers, and this could be a chance for Francis to seek professional help." _

Francis' eyes blurred after that, and he ripped the magazine in half, right down its spine, and then took the papers and lined them up together and then ripped them all up in half again, pieces into smaller pieces. He was crying by the time he'd realized that he couldn't leave the papers lying on the floor for fear that Arthur would see them; he was still crying when he bent down to gather the shreds. The faces on them were ones Francis recognized. They were all smiling and staring up at him, unmoving.

He could not believe that the people he once worked with would say such cruel things about him — would write away his horrible disease as a ploy to garner sympathy and attention, would belittle everything he was going through, would mock his pains and humiliate his body. He could only remember one time in his life when he'd been treated equally as cruelly as this time now — back when he'd been in high school and had never regularly been made fun of for being gay yet one day found himself drugged at a party. The morning after he found all his clothes missing except his underwear and all his hair on the right side of his skull crudely chopped off. And every square inch of his exposed skin was covered in lipstick with the words _WHORE_ or _QUEER. _And so it turned out that the friends he'd made there had never really been his friends, just strangers who felt sorry for him for being a bit of an outcast.

But that was different; that was over ten years ago. And Francis had long forgiven the ones who'd wronged him.

This was a new kind of hurt, one borne of blatant ignorance and the fact that the magazine had literally nothing left to write about except gossip on one of their former employees. This hurt came from the exposure of good folk struggling to make it by; this was schaudenfreude, pleasure derived from another's pain. This was the failing of all creation, the hope lost in humanity, the path littered with destruction and hatred and cowardice.

* * *

Francis was still having trouble breathing, so he talked to Kiku and they booked an appointment for a lung biopsy so that another doctor could inspect his airways. Arthur fell asleep an hour before they were supposed to leave, so Francis went with Matthew, who he'd long since stopped hiding things from.

He hadn't eaten anything for the past twelve hours, as was required, and hadn't taken his medication either. There was a part of him that felt collapsible without it, and another part that felt utterly liberated. For half a day he walked without his aspirin like he hadn't _needed _it to survive. It'd felt great.

Matthew waited outside the room when the bronchoscopy was being done. Francis lied back on the table and watched nervously as a young middle eastern doctor retrieved a long, flexible black device, about two feet long. It looked something like a torture instrument.

The doctor first sprayed an anesthetic in Francis' mouth and throat, causing him to sit up just to cough horribly when he felt a fluid run down his esophagus. After a short amount of time the anesthetic began to work, numbing his jaw and the back of his throat and making his tongue feel thick and sluggish. The doctor then pushed at Francis' shoulder so that he was lying flat on his back again, and then began to insert the bronchoscope down his mouth and past his epiglottis and down his trachea.

It felt like he was going to suffocate. Francis lay there, paralyzed in fear, arms bound to his side as he felt the tugging motion of the bronchoscope go deeper and deeper down his windpipe. He wanted to cough it up, but he couldn't — who knew what would happen, would the tube get stuck in his throat, would he actually choke, would he die?

After what seemed like the longest time, the tube was finally retracting and Francis felt himself able to breathe through his mouth once more. His throat felt scratchy and he still couldn't cough, due to the numbness of his mouth. Francis thanked the doctor thickly as he was led out the door, the doctor informing him that he'd taken a tissue sample from Francis' lungs and that he'd be sending the sample off for further research, as well as what he'd seen. He told Francis of the date the results would be back in and sent him off to see Kiku.

Matthew drove Francis there. Kiku's office was only a few minutes away.

"Are you okay?" Matthew asked worriedly, shooting Francis customary glances whenever he could afford to take his eyes off the road.

"I feel tired," Francis slurred.

"You _always_ feel tired," Matthew said glumly, turning at an intersection. When Francis didn't respond, it was because he had fallen asleep, his head dropping to lean against his seatbelt.

Later Francis woke up when he felt something very wet in his ear. He jerked away, blinking rapidly, looking at Matthew on his left looking sheepish and holding up his finger. "It still works," Matthew said.

"You're disgusting," Francis cried, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. "What time is it?"

"Don't worry about it. I called Kiku to ask if we could push your appointment back a little bit. He said okay, he didn't have anymore appointments for the rest of the day. It's been an hour since."

"I've been sleeping for an _hour_?" exclaimed Francis, rubbing at his ear as he looked at Matthew with incredulity.

"You needed the sleep," Matthew said, frowning. "Arthur tells me —"

"I know what Arthur tells you," Francis said. "I feel great."

Matthew grinned, happy as a puppy. "Good," he said. "God knows you needed the nap." They walked to the clinic together and ascended the stairs past the front lobby.

"I'm sorry for making you wait an hour in the car for me," said Francis, truly apologetic. Matthew shrugged his shoulders.

"It's nothing. I always keep a bunch of books in the back with me, just for those rare occasions. Maybe Lovina's driving and Kuma's not there and we get into a traffic jam or something. It's nice. I don't always get to read as much as I'd like to."

Francis marveled when he thought of Matthew's family again, the woman he'd married and the child they had and the life they carved out together, all on their own. Matthew was so _together_ with everything that went on in his life, always on time and responsible. He had a steady job and so did Lovina and sometimes they went out to eat and they had a babysitter. Matthew was just so very _normal_, and Francis felt sorry that he had to live next to Francis and Arthur and be worried about them more than he should.

"What books?" he asked amiably as Matthew held a door open for him.

"Oh, you know," said Matthew, "_The Hobbit_ and _Oliver Twist_ and _Gulliver's Travels_ and _Peter Pan_. And a bunch of Margaret Atwood's, I do love her."

"I remember," laughed Francis. "You always used to recite that one poem of hers, what was it? 'I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center. I would like to follow you up the long stairway again and become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and you enter it as easily as breathing in.'"

Matthew nodded. "'I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.' So you do remember."

They smiled at each other and then they were waiting outside Kiku's door and then Kiku was letting them in.

Kiku Honda asked for a sample of Francis' sputum, which he performed via a sputum test by having Francis wait out the anesthetics and then coughing it up, extracting the specimen of fungi to culture and examine. "Once we have the name of the exact bacteria growing in your lungs," Kiku said, smiling a little, "as well as the other tests that were performed on you, your infection is as good as gone. We will give you the agent that will most effectively treat you and there will be no doubt of your fast recovery."

Francis thought Kiku was getting a little cocky, but he couldn't blame the other. The doctor had thrown himself into researching as much as he could about Francis' pneumonia after he anticipated his having it. Kiku was but a smalltime clinical doctor, and could only do so much for Francis, so he called hospitals and other research agencies and booked Francis appointments and called him often to check that he was taking his medication properly. They were no longer simply doctor and patient; Kiku was in all regards the friend Francis had been once close to in college, and the line of professionalism was now gone. If something was to come about Francis, Kiku would be one of the first to feel responsible.

When Kiku excused himself from the room for a little while to take a call at the front desk, leaving Francis and Matthew alone in the small room, Francis took out his cellular from his pocket. He'd turned it off before the biopsy because he hadn't wanted to distract either himself or the doctor, even though he ended up leaving all his belongings outside the room with Matthew anyway. When he turned it back on, Francis saw that there were six text messages and two missed calls, all from Arthur.

Francis called Arthur back. "You should have woken me up, damn you," Arthur's voice came growling over the phone first thing.

"You looked tired. Matthew's here with me instead."

"I know. What took you so long to get back to me?"

"The biopsy took longer than I expected. And our appointment with Dr. Honda was pushed back an hour because I fell asleep." Francis shot Matthew a grateful look, though the other wasn't paying him any attention.

"You got some sleep?" Arthur sounded excited.

Francis couldn't help but feel excited for himself as well. "Yes. I feel incredibly refreshed now."

"Good for you!"

"Thank you!"

"Alright, well, when do you think you'll be heading home?"

Francis tapped his chin. "Soon, I'll wager," he said, just as Kiku entered the room.

"Now, if you'd prefer," said Kiku. "We're all finished here. Are you still good with your medicine?"

"Dr. Honda, it's only been two weeks," said Francis, smiling.

Arthur hung up after that and Francis and Matthew left after saying goodbye. Francis had no idea why he felt so good — perhaps it was because he got an hour of perfect sleep without a single disturbance. He felt like he could conquer places, things, people. He wanted to head home straightaway and crawl into bed with a hot mug of French vanilla with Arthur by his side and have Arthur read out loud poetry to him.

Matthew had other ideas. "Let's go out, if you're feeling up for it," he said.

"Where do you have in mind?" asked Francis, curious.

"The zoo," said Matthew, and grinned, and they went.

* * *

Zoos were sad places. Both Francis and Matthew alike had never liked seeing animals chained up outside their natural habitats, forced to perform and sleep and eat under the scrutinizing stares of screaming children with grubby fingers and rough French men who were impatient with time and stingy when it came to money.

Matthew had always held a soft passion for ducks, however, and went to zoos almost exclusively to see them. Why, Francis had no idea — ducks could be found anywhere in the wild and would approach anyone who had food in their palms — but there they were, sitting beside an old fountain and tossing purchased bird food to them. Matthew didn't even like looking at the other animals.

The hype from having reclaimed the energy he'd lost through his nap had long ago died down and now Francis was once again short of breath and fatigued and coughing. He hadn't brought his medication with him and he hadn't taken any for the past sixteen hours, though of course he wouldn't tell Matthew that.

His coughing made the ducks avoid him and crowd around Matthew instead. The younger finally had enough when one pooped on his shoe when he was looking the other way, causing Francis to snort with laugher.

When Matthew was finished wiping the excretion from his shoes with a napkin, he looked up to see Francis bent over the fountain. Matthew slid up next to him and they watched for a little while, arms touching, as fallen leaves glided over the surface of the water from one edge of the fountain to the other.

"What's wrong?" asked Matthew, and Francis wasn't sure.

"Something's coming," he said instead, his brows furrowing. "I can feel it in my gut."

"What's coming?"

Francis only shook his head, concentrating on his breathing. Every time he inhaled or exhaled, he imagined a murmur run down the length of his windpipe from the air blowing past the fungus on the walls of it. He imagined carpets of thick moss-like substances coating his lungs, white the colour of bird feces and green the colour of mold. He imagined that every time he breathed in he brought into his respiratory system a thousand more colonies of other bacteria that wouldn't die and wouldn't be discharged later, rather fastening themselves on and around his cells and quickening there, hard and fast, multiplying and multiplying until they coated the inside of his entire body.

And when he was dead, they'd cut him up and hang up his skin on a wall, and every square inch would be covered in living, breathing fungus, moving like sea plants did underwater. And when they cut open his throat there'd be little mushrooms — not even the beautiful, red or blue spotted ones, but rather the cracking brown ones, the ugly ones.

"Matthew," said Francis. "About Mother…"

Matthew was very still and very quiet for a little while, before he said, "She has been dead for the longest time, Francis."

"People are forgetting her," said Francis.

"Who people?"

"Me. You. There's no one else. It'll be the same when I'm gone; ten years from now, fifteen, I'll just be another unfortunate tragedy. People will move on."

"You're not going anywhere," said Matthew, sounding genuinely confused. "Didn't you hear Dr. Honda? You can be cured."

"AIDS can only ever be slowed down," laughed Francis hollowly. "Never stopped forever. Even the best medication money can buy can't save you in the end. It's just a matter of luck — whether you pulled the short straw in the beginning or the straw that was split down the middle or the straw that wasn't actually a straw at all but a stick of maggots because nothing is real and everything you see now is a hallucination."

"What makes you say that?"

"I saw our mother," said Francis. "I saw her for the first time in ages. I don't even look at her picture anymore, not like I used to. Why did she appear to haunt me the night I jumped, why is she appearing again?"

Matthew bit his lip. "We weren't close to her," he admitted. "Neither me nor you. I don't know either. Maybe she's a subconscious manifestation of your guilt."

"Yeah?" Francis mused. "I have a lot of that."

"Chel?" Matthew asked, and Francis nodded. No matter what Arthur said, Francis had still never been able to move on from what he'd done in his head. For a while, memories of her had been easy to suppress, but now they were resurfacing and have been ever since he witnessed her dead body rotting alongside the alleys of Paris. Matthew already knew this, of course — something even Arthur didn't. "Yao?" Matthew asked, and Francis nodded again.

"Soon I will join the dead," he said.

Matthew turned away and said nothing. Matthew was not Arthur, Francis realized with a jolt. Matthew was logical and never let his emotions crowd his reasoning. He saw beyond what he believed and everything beyond that as well; he recognized possibilities, acknowledged them, gave them life in his own head, with his own meaning. Matthew did not deny hard truths or shaking lies. In his heart he probably believed Francis. They were of the same kin; they shared the same blood. They both lost a mother whom they've both forgotten. Of everything Matthew knew and did not know, there was one thing he will always believe to be absolute. Matthew believed in love that overcomes soul mates and love that transcends time but did not believe in love that defeats death.

* * *

Later Francis sat in the backseat of Matthew's car, in the middle of a traffic jam, reading Matthew's books. He had themopen on his lap and a flashlight between his teeth because it had started to rain thirty minutes ago and all of Paris had been doused in darkness.

* * *

_Either I'm alive or I'm dying, she said to Daniel. Please don't feel you can't tell me. Which is it? _

_Which does it feel like? Said Daniel. He patted her hand. You're not dead yet. You're a lot more alive than many people. _

_This isn't good enough for Rennie. She wants something definite, the real truth, one way or the other. Then she will know what she should do next. It's this suspension, hanging in a void, this half-life she can't bear. She can't bear not knowing. She doesn't want to know._

* * *

"_We are the dead," he said. _

"_We're not dead yet," said Julia prosaically. _

"_Not physically. Six months, a year _— _five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing."_

* * *

"_Does it hurt?" The childish question had escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it._

"_Dying? Not at all," said Sirius. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."_

* * *

Matthew looked in the rear-view mirror and said, "Stop that, Francis," and Francis put the books down and looked dully out the car window like a sullen child.

* * *

So he began to prepare himself for the inevitable.

It'd been easy, living with Arthur — but only because Arthur was a great distraction in Francis' thoughts and he did not allow Francis to think or talk about death. Now Arthur did not know that Francis was thinking about it, and he did not know that Francis felt almost resigned to the fact. Kiku had said that it'd be easy, getting Francis back to normal again — or something of the sorts. Kiku had promised Francis life, but what did Kiku know? Everyone, in the end, dies anyway; everyone's promises are sooner broken.

Francis took a long walk late the night after he and Matthew went to see Kiku. Arthur was snoring in bed; Francis, again, could not sleep. He thought long and hard that night about Arthur and Matthew and Gilbert and Antonio and Chel and everyone else and wondered if any of it was worth it. Maybe only Arthur. And maybe only Matthew. And Gilbert and Antonio, them too.

And then Francis realized that _everyone _had been worth it, every single minute of every single day that he'd spent with them, and that he'd miss them terribly when he's gone. And then Francis realized that he didn't _want _to be gone, because it was unfair. He was still young. He'd been promised at least another good forty years under his belt, according to those online statistics. Things like this are supposed to happen to other people, not him.

When Francis returned to bed, he took sleeping pills and successfully managed to put himself into deep sleep right away. He did not want to dream and he did not want to remain awake, tossing and turning until the sun rose again, trapped between two definites. Then he'd have to smile and pretend to be happy for the rest of the excruciatingly long dragging day and then he'd have to toss and turn later that night all over again, never sure of where he was going.

* * *

"Did you have a good night's sleep?" asked Arthur brightly the next morning, and Francis wondered for a brief second if Arthur was pretending to be happy too.

"I did," he replied easily. "And you?"

"I hardly slept," Arthur responded. "The news about your biopsy — that's great, Francis. I could hardly sleep at all, I was so excited."

Francis could only smile, and nod.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 4995 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Some prayers find an answer. - Holding On and Letting Go, Ross Copperman.

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Francis felt like shit.

"I feel like shit," he groaned to Matthew, who patted him on the back sympathetically as he coughed into the crook of his elbow. "Matthew, _Matthew_ —"

"We should head back," said Matthew, and Francis nodded.

He and his brother had been spending more time together as of late. He didn't know why, but he felt more comfortable around the Canadian now — perhaps because Matthew was the only one who _really_ knew everything that had went on in Francis' life. He was pushing Arthur away and he knew it but it was so hard to care when he was so sick.

He hadn't been to Kiku's in _weeks_. The Japanese man kept calling his cell — and when that didn't work, their home phone — but Francis intercepted all the calls and told Arthur that Kiku hadn't gotten any results back yet. Francis knew that sooner or later Kiku would be coming to their house and then Arthur would find out that Francis was slowly killing himself off, but if he was lucky, by then it'd be too late.

Matthew knew. Matthew knew all of Francis' suicidal thoughts and the alarming rate at which he was falling back into depression. Matthew knew and he couldn't _do _anything, and Francis felt horrible for pushing this kind of burden on him, but it didn't _matter_ anymore.

Matthew was only really here to ease some of the pain of the departure, now.

Francis didn't drink, though, and he didn't smoke. He was going into withdrawal from having not taken his medication in so long — he wouldn't talk to anyone, grew snappy at anyone who tried, and could no longer make out the difference between sleep and reality (not that he could before, anyway, what with his insomnia).

"Are you alright?" Matthew asked worriedly, and Francis nodded.

"Fine," he grit out, before coughing into his sleeve again. He turned to follow Matthew down across the port. They came here often; Francis liked the smell and sight of the Channel.

"This isn't healthy —" Matthew started for about the millionth time that day.

"Can it," Francis warned, shooting Matthew a nasty glare. The other quickly shut up and turned away. "This is what I _want_."

"I highly doubt that," Matthew said rudely, talking back to Francis for the first time in ages. "Francis, I don't want to see you waste away."

"This wouldn't be the first time," Francis said bitterly. "Where were you then, if you care so much?"

It was a low blow, and Matthew flinched from it, the pain evident in his eyes. Francis shoved past his brother and walked the rest of the way back himself, leaving Matthew to stand there alone on the dirty shoreline of France.

Francis waited for Matthew in the car so that they could head back to Paris together, but Matthew never showed back up. It was Matthew's car (Francis didn't have one). He read a bit and then got a text message from Arthur asking where he was.

_Just out for a walk. I'll be home soon, _was his response.

_Francis, it's been four hours._

Francis ignored the last message and called Matthew's cellular. "Where are you?" he asked as soon as the other picked up.

"Are you feeling well enough to drive back yourself, Francis?" Matthew asked, voice genuinely kind and gentle but Francis could still tell that Matthew was hurt and wanted to be left alone.

"Of course I am," He shot back. "I'm not a cripple."

"Francis, I —" The other cut himself off. "Never mind. I don't want to leave you alone, but —"

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. But how will you be getting home?"

"I'll take the train or the bus or something. I'll figure it out, don't worry."

"I'm not." A pause. "I'm sorry, Matthew," Francis said. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I know you are. I just have to be by myself for a little while, okay? I'm not mad. Honest. There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect the way you are. I think so, Arthur thinks so especially, Gilbert and Antonio think so too."

Francis let Matthew's soothing words wash over him and let himself be lulled by their false pretentiousness. He hung up without another word after that and climbed out of the car to get into the driver's seat. It was almost noon; Francis figured he'd stop sometime along the two and a half hour trip to get something to eat.

He wanted to come back to this place every day and he was hesitant to leave; Francis let his fingers linger over the rim of the door of the car as his eyes traveled across the plane of water.

It was out of nowhere — one minute Francis was standing still and silent alone in the parking lot, and the next he was face first in the ground, feeling the heel of a boot ground itself into his spine.

He yelled, and squirmed, but felt his arms twist behind his back and suddenly he was out of wiggle room. "Where's your wallet?" growled a voice in his ear, a voice that belonged to someone that couldn't have been more than a teenager. When Francis looked up, he saw that there were three of them — two holding his arms down, the other one rummaging through Matthew's car.

"Hey —" Francis started before he was punched in the side of his face by a fist from above. "Fuck," Francis spat, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He looked up again, futilely, only to see that there was no one else around. The parking lot was elevated from the port, and there were only four other cars parked there — none of which had any people inside. He was alone. "Fuck!" he gasped as he felt hands wrench him into a sitting position.

And then his face was being pounded from left and right — and every time he was punched he'd fall to the side and be yanked back into an upright position again. His hair was sticking to his face and he felt blood run down over one of his eyes. He had bit his tongue accidentally in the process, which intensified all the pain only a thousand times more.

And as soon as it had come, it was all over. Francis was leaning against Matthew's car, huffing and panting and grappling uselessly against the metal for leverage, his nails scratching at the paint. He tried to stand up but he did so too fast and ended up toppling over again. He saw one of the teenagers pick through his wallet and throw the car keys at his face, which Francis tried to block but it hit him on the forehead anyway. Without a glance back, the kids left, and Francis was alone once more.

There wasn't a lot in the wallet — nothing he'd miss too much, really. All his important credentials and anything else that may be of value had been left at home. There had been just a couple wads of bills and a picture of Arthur. That was it.

Francis drove slowly, dabbling the blood out of his eyes. He pulled off the road the first chance he got and escaped into the bathroom of an old coffee shop, where he checked his wound. It was just a small cut that ran diagonally over his left eyebrow and a cut on his lips; otherwise, he was completely fine. He washed his face slowly, carefully, and went back outside.

The ride back was excruciatingly annoying. His wounds kept bleeding, however minuscule they were, and Francis had to juggle between keeping his concentration on the road and wiping the blood out of his eyes. His body's inability to form scabs as quickly as they used to was one of the most annoying things about having HIV, or AIDS — and worst of all, he'd never appreciated those smaller details before. Now he missed them all the more.

It was only later that the shame of having been beat up by a small group of hardly grown teenagers caught up to Francis. His cheeks became warm and red. It wasn't as though he'd have been able to fight them off even if he hadn't AIDS, Francis reasoned with himself carefully. He'd been outnumbered three to one. It wasn't a fair fight to begin with.

Three hours later Francis finally reached Paris, where he immediately slipped inside his flat to grab something to stop the bleeding of his cuts. He also managed to bump into Arthur at the same time, who'd been sitting at the table drinking tea and reading the newspaper from two days ago.

"Where've you been?" he asked without looking up.

Francis shrugged off his light coat and hung it on one of the hooks near the door. "Around," he said dismissively. He saw Arthur move to get up, so Francis slipped away quickly into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

"Francis?" came Arthur's worried voice from the other side of the wall.

"Yes," Francis said absentmindedly as he hurriedly disinfected his cuts and put a bandage over the one on his forehead. Francis opened the door to let Arthur in.

Arthur stepped inside and looked Francis up and down. "What happened to your forehead?" he asked finally.

"I fell," said Francis. "I tripped on the curb and I accidentally dropped my wallet into the Seine. And I hit my face in the process."

"God," said Arthur. "You shouldn't even have left. Sometimes you're gone for half the day and I don't even know where —"

"Would you stop being so clingy? I'm always with Matthew."

"I'm just _worried_ about you!" snapped Arthur. "You can be so bloody obtuse sometimes, did you know that?"

"How is it my fault that I fell?" asked Francis, growing defensive.

"I didn't say that —"

"But you're saying if you were there, this wouldn't have happened."

"Yes!"

"_Matthew_ was there!" said Francis, growing irrationally angry.

"Matthew wasn't doing a very good job then!"

"I can take care of myself," growled Francis and he shoved Arthur into the door. On an impulse, perhaps, Arthur shoved back, and Francis toppled backwards into the door frame. He hadn't been expecting that.

And neither had Arthur, apparently, because immediately afterward Arthur's eyes bugged out and he reached a hand towards Francis. "Sorry," he said. "I hadn't actually meant to do that —"

But Francis didn't let him finish, and batted his arm away. He leapt at Arthur like a cornered animal, pulling at the Brit's hair and scratching at his face and playing dirty, not even bothering with trying to land hard punches.

Arthur struggled underneath him, not fighting back but trying to get Francis to let go. "Francis, _stop that_!" he snapped. "You're hurting me — ow! Fuck! _Get off_!" The washroom was terribly small, and with every splay of a limb both of them was hitting either the sink or the toilet or the tub, but Francis didn't notice any of that. He just wanted to hurt Arthur as much as he could, as soon as he could, and get Arthur to _see_.

Francis snarled and grabbed Arthur's shoulders and threw his entire body into pushing Arthur backwards onto the rim of the bathtub. "Why don't you _understand_?!" screamed Francis, brutally snapping Arthur's head back against the porcelain tub and then bringing it forwards to do it again. "I _hate_ you! I want you to leave me alone — I don't want to see your face or talk to you or hear your voice. I _hate _you!"

"Francis!" Arthur yelled, just as Francis brought Arthur's head crashing against the long line of shower essentials that had been lined on tub. "Francis, _stop that_!" Arthur struggled, but there was no way he could escape from the death grip Francis had on him. Francis' hands were around Arthur' neck, his legs pinning the other's legs underneath them, his eyes wild and red. Arthur's own hands were clenched around Francis' upper arms, trying desperately to throw the other off. "Fuck, you're going to —"

Francis shoved Arthur against the tub one final time. The painful banging noise that Arthur's skull made with the porcelain was almost unbearable to hear, so Francis loosened his grip and dropped his gaze, already beginning to cry. "I'm sorry," he said, looking down at Arthur's belly. "I'm sorry."

"Ah — _Fuck_! It's okay, Francis," panted Arthur, as he gently removed Francis' hands from his neck and then brought his own hands around him. Arthur brought him close to his chest and the two sat there awkwardly, one leaning in a halfway sitting up position against the bathtub and the other sitting between his knees with his ear pressed against his chest.

Francis tried to pull away, but Arthur's grip on him was suffocating and after a moment's attempt he simply gave up and completely collapsed against the other, giving the Brit his entire weight. He feebly wrapped one arm around the Brit's torso but left the other arm hang by his side, fingers slightly curled.

"What are we going to do," laughed Arthur, as he lifted a hand to gently stroke Francis' hair. He quickly kissed the top of Francis' head and rubbed that area thoughtfully, almost as though Francis was a child.

Francis said nothing, only rubbed his nose into Arthur's shirt, which was disgusting, but Arthur didn't seem to mind. So the Brit continued. "Don't push me away again," he said softly, whispering into the general area of Francis' ear.

The Frenchman shook his head. He was falling asleep before he knew it.

* * *

When Francis awoke later that night the first thing he thought of was the fact that he was _very uncomfortable_.

He'd apparently fallen asleep in Arthur's arms on the floor of the bathroom, on his knees with one hand wrapped around Arthur's torso and his cheek pressed against Arthur's chest. He'd made a small puddle of drool there. Francis slowly pried Arthur's arms away from him; the Brit had fallen asleep, too. Judging by the darkness outside the bathroom window, they'd been here for a long time.

Francis imagined Arthur talking to him as he slept, waiting for himself to be lulled into unconsciousness, however his discomfort. He imagined Arthur remaining very still in that horrible position on those horribly cold bathroom tiles so as not to wake Francis from his sleep. He imagined Arthur continuing to stroke his hair until his arms cramped and he could no longer feel his legs. And Francis was suddenly immensely grateful.

Francis stepped outside the bathroom to grab a blanket from their room. He wrapped it around himself and made a cup of coffee; now that he was awake, there was no way in hell he'd be able to fall asleep again. Although that had been an uncomfortable nap, Francis felt refreshed. Any sleep was good sleep.

He brought the coffee and the blanket back into the bathroom and sat beside Arthur and tried positioning the Brit so that he was more relaxed and wouldn't wake up with sores and cramps all over him. Arthur's head had dropped onto Francis' when they'd been sleeping, but now that Francis was gone Arthur's head was tilted backwards over the empty bathtub. When Francis failed to shift Arthur around, the Frenchman simply — very carefully — began to pick Arthur up, one arm under the other's torso and the other arm under the other's knees.

To be honest, he'd never done this kind of bridal style carrying with Arthur, and he found it harder than it looked on television. It was difficult just standing up — he had to remember to lift with his legs, not his back. Then he had to maneuver the two of them out of the bathroom. Finally he dropped Arthur rather hurriedly onto the bed, and the Brit snorted in his sleep before turning over.

Francis, huffing and puffing, went back to retrieve his coffee. His arms and back ached. He was _never_ doing that again.

He curled up next to Arthur in bed and gave the other a fond look, tucking a wayward strand of Arthur's hair behind his ear. There were two long scratches going down the Brit's face; they looked raw and pink and angry, and were bleeding in some places, but Francis knew they wouldn't scar. He traced over the scratches with the tip of a finger, feeling Arthur take a deep breath from his mouth and consequently move his cheeks. Francis smiled a little to himself, and then tucked his feet under the covers. He took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes. "Hello, my old heart," he whispered.

He didn't get any more sleep that night, but that was alright.

* * *

By the time Arthur awoke the next morning, Francis was gone, and he was alone in bed.

Arthur rubbed at his eyes. He was disoriented for a little bit and tried to remember what had happened the night before. It came back to him slowly — getting into an argument with Francis, falling asleep on the bathroom floor with Francis. His head hurt like crazy, and his left cheek stung. When Arthur lifted a hand to touch it, he felt two hard, thin scabs run down the length of his face.

Arthur threw the blankets off his legs and went to the bathroom. Something was not right. For some unfathomable reason, Arthur had assumed that Francis would be here — he wasn't. Arthur flipped off the lights and went to the living room instead.

"Francis?" he called tentatively. Arthur stood still for a little bit, heart beating wildly in his chest. "Francis —" he said, and went to the kitchen, and there the Frenchman was, head in his arms on the kitchen table with an empty coffee mug beside him. Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief. He had no idea why he'd been so scared, but everything was okay now.

Arthur shook Francis' shoulders slightly, enough to alert the man of his presence if Francis was awake and not enough to wake him up if he was asleep. Francis didn't respond, so Arthur assumed he'd fallen back into deeps slumber. Arthur went to the kitchen, still in his sleeping clothes, and began to make breakfast. A quick look at the clock told him it was close to noon; Arthur felt abnormally tired for having slept for so long. It was a good thing he didn't have work.

Arthur set a cup of hot milk next to Francis and set his own breakfast down on the table across from the Frenchman. He ate slowly, watching his husband the entire time, deliberating whether or not it was worth moving the other to put him in bed if it meant that there was a possibility Francis could wake up.

But then Arthur noticed something strange — that Francis wasn't breathing slowly and calmly like a sleeping person normally would. Rather, his breathing was erratic and jagged; Arthur frowned and put down his milk and crossed over to the other side of the table to shake Francis again. "Hey," he said. "What is it?"

"I just can't sleep," came the groggy, extremely tired voice of his husband. "I've been sitting here for the past three hours."

"Let's go to bed?" Arthur suggested, holding out his hand. Without even looking up, Francis raised his own hand, and Arthur joined their fingers together. He led the Frenchman out of the chair. The first glimpse he got of Francis' face startled Arthur — the other's eyes were completely bloodshot, puffy underneath, and his lips were cracked and dry and his entire face was pink. "Should we go to the doctor's?" asked Arthur.

"I only want to sleep," said Francis, brushing Arthur off. "A few hours and I'll be good." He let go of Arthur's hand and crossed the living room to return to the bedroom himself; Arthur stayed where he was, standing in the kitchen and watching Francis go, feeling for some incredulous reason incredibly morose. He had no idea why.

"And then?" asked Arthur, just as Francis was about to turn the corner.

"And then what?" responded the Frenchman.

"You tell me," said Arthur. He could not shake away the _wrongness_ of what he was feeling at the moment, whatever the reason. And he had no idea _why_ he felt this way. He was worried; he had no idea what Francis was planning on doing, and he was scared it'd be something stupid and unnecessarily drastic.

Francis paused in his step and met Arthur's eye. The two held a staring contest for a short while; Francis was the first to break it. The Frenchman smiled and dropped his gaze. "Come to bed with me, Arthur," he cajoled, before turning on his heel and disappearing behind the wall.

Arthur took a deep breath. _You're just being paranoid_, he thought to himself as he followed his husband. _There's nothing wrong here. Maybe you and Francis just have a bit of tension right now because of what happened last night. And anyway, Francis is tired _— _he's bound to act differently in a way that might set you off. Just go and support him. He needs you._

Arthur didn't believe half the words he repeated to himself but he went anyway.

* * *

When Francis finally got the adequate sleep he needed and he wasn't feeling half as shitty as he was before, he decided to take his leave.

Arthur was right to have been worried and sense that something was off. There _was_ something off — in that Francis was leaving, and for good this time.

He'd come to this conclusion not too long ago, but that didn't mean that he hadn't been thinking about it for the past six years of his life. The thought that he should run away and take everyone's burdens off them had only ever been brought up in conversation all of once with Arthur, in which Arthur got so angry that he locked Francis in the bathroom for three hours, all the while he himself was sobbing outside. Francis had never brought it up again.

He always wondered about this inconclusive reverie, though. Would Arthur's life have been any better if Francis hadn't been in it — at least for the past half decade? Would it improve in any way if he left — was it too late for him to leave? What about Matthew's life — would Matthew hate himself less because of what happened to Francis? And Gilbert, and Antonio? It was only fair, anyway — departure was how Chel had chosen (or perhaps not chosen) to take her leave, and departure was the best way for Francis to go too.

He was going to disappear off the face of this planet. It was a fate akin to suicide, and Francis knew that by doing so he would only be hurting those around him _more_. But Francis could no longer believe that he meant _so _much to his friends and family that their lives would not even get _fractionally_ better with him gone and less bills to pay for and less stress. This situation was far different than suicide, because Francis has been dying all along. He just wanted to speed up the process now, so that Arthur and Matthew and all the others can go live the rest of their lives without him rather than watch him shrivel up when he's forty or so and they, consequently, have less life to go live.

It was a petty, selfish reason, and Francis knew it, but he no longer had the same faith in himself that he used to. He no longer believed that he was anything more than simply a burden on the weights of everyone's shoulders. Arthur had always tried to convince him otherwise — oh, did Arthur try! — but sooner or later there had to come a point where Francis just _snaps_. This was his breaking point.

Francis had his final cup of coffee in the kitchen the night after he and Arthur had that fight. He was sorry to leave before they had a chance to _truly _make up for what happened, but he was pretty content with this ending, too. His last memory of Arthur would be falling asleep in the other man's arms. Francis liked it.

Arthur was a deep sleeper, so Francis didn't have a problem with banging around the kitchen a little to make his coffee and then escape into their master bedroom to get some clothes. Before he went back outside, Francis spent a long time just watching Arthur sleep. It'd be borderline creepy in any other situation, but this was the only chance Francis would get to say goodbye and he wanted to cherish it forever.

He wanted to carve a picture of Arthur's face in his heart of steel and keep it with him always. Out of all the people Francis would ever miss in his life, it would be this man the most, and Francis wasn't even sure himself of _why_. They fought more than they made up and they were worrying about each other more than they were trusting each other. They disliked each other's interests and hobbies and weren't afraid to make fun of each other for them and weren't above taking advantage of each other either with those same interests and hobbies. They were always yelling and hurting each other, either emotionally or physically, and sometimes Francis — and he knew Arthur felt the same way — got so sick of it that he legitimately just wanted to pack up his bags and _leave_ and never return.

And to think he was finally going through with that plan now.

As it was, though, Francis loved Arthur. _Everything _up to this point had been for Arthur, even though he had had to do some pretty twisted things and had had to go through some pretty bumpy hardships. In their own dysfunctional way they'd managed to prove themselves to each other day in and day out, from the cups of coffee and tea that they make for each other every morning to their side-by-side walks through Paris no matter the weather. It sounded a bit pathetic, but Francis knew that coffee cups and walks were enough to stick around for. He was fine with those. Which was why he had to let them go.

Francis bent and kissed Arthur gently on his forehead. The other stirred and lifted a hand to bat the Frenchman away, and the tips of Francis' lips twitched. "I'm going to miss you, beloved," Francis said, unable to keep the flow of tears from stopping behind his eyes. He didn't know why he cried so much nowadays, but it just felt _right. _And it did help ease the pain a little. Or at least some of it.

Francis wiped away his tears and turned to go before he felt something hard clench around his wrist. He whipped around and found himself nose to nose with Arthur, staring into a pair of giant, wide green eyes. And Francis almost _peed_ himself right there from the unquenchable fury in Arthur's eyes, because he'd been _caught_.

"You _coward_," said Arthur, in a low, deadly voice.

"Let me go, Arthur," said Francis. He got six hours of sleep in the past twenty four hours and that was enough to propel him forward — he had enough energy to conquer a planet and he sure as hell could overcome Arthur. Arthur wasn't going to stop him. Arthur had no right. But even still Francis couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice.

"How dare you," Arthur said slowly, as he sat up in bed, one hand on Francis' wrist the entire time. He twisted it in a way that made Francis cry out and Francis reached his other hand out to grab at Arthur's arm, trying to pry himself away from Arthur's grip of iron. "How fucking _dare_ you."

"Arthur, you're hurting me," sobbed Francis as his arm is twisted in an unfathomable way, and Francis screamed, really _screamed_, because _god it hurt it hurt it hurt._

"How dare you!" Arthur yelled, and he's punching Francis with his free hand again and again until the Frenchman is sinking low onto the ground, trying to cover himself and get away from Arthur at the same time. "How — dare — you!" he screamed, hitting Francis on the head with each word that passed between his lips. "After everything we've done and it _still doesn't mean anything to you_! _Everything_!"

"You can't stop me," panted Francis. "Who are you to stop me?"

"Your fucking husband," growled Arthur. "I thought that meant something to you."

"It's just a slip of paper," said Francis, and a horrible hurt shot through Arthur's eyes and his body seized up. Francis took the opportunity to wrench himself away from Arthur and he stumbled two steps backwards, rubbing at his bruised wrist.

Arthur slowly got up from bed, looking murderous. He took a step towards Francis, and Francis took one back, and Francis didn't even care anymore but he's actually _terrified_. He's so terrified that he's ready to bolt out of the apartment at any time and run down the streets of Paris, night clothes and all, if that meant getting away from the wrath of hell behind him. He's prepared to make a break for it, to legitimately get away from Arthur, because Arthur looked like he was prepared to _grab _Francis and keep him here _forever_, chained up against his will, and beat him until he's black and blue. Arthur's not incapable of doing that. Francis knows Arthur's strength firsthand.

So Francis ran, and Arthur grabbed for him, and his fingers missed Francis by the breadth of a hair. And Francis could hear Arthur's anguished cry echo through the entire building as he ran down the hallways, covering his head, running from the best choice he had ever made in his entire life.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 2760 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

"So," Francis said, looking down at the expanse of water before them. "Things have finally come full circle."

"What's full circle?" Arthur said grumpily, watching as the waves roll back and forth, back and forth, the white sea foam they left on the shore the only evidence of their presence. Their setting slowly changes; soon Arthur is no longer standing next to Francis in front of the great sea, but they're on top of a little bridge instead. A little bridge that endures, Arthur thought, despite everything.

"What's wrong with your fingers?" Arthur asked when his eyes caught Francis' nails. Once perfectly taken care of, now they're chipped and bruised and bleeding, and one's completely fallen off.

"You don't remember?" asked Francis. "You barricaded us in. You practically went mad, you know. Nailed boards to the doors and windows and everything."

"I did?" Arthur blinked. "I see."

Francis nodded, excited. "I had to pry them off. Otherwise we'd never have come this far. But look at us now! On the Mirabeau bridge, on top of the world. See? Things have finally come full circle."

Arthur's not entirely sure what he was doing here, and why Francis was there with him. The last thing he remembered was…well, he couldn't remember. Just that he and Francis got into some big fight of sorts and that Francis left. "You know," he mused. "There's a poem this one guy wrote about the bridge. And the river."

"Oh yeah?" Francis grinned toothily. "How's it go?"

Arthur struggled to find the words. "I don't…I can't say it. You know I can hardly speak French."

"_Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine_," Francis whispered softly. "Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine."

"I remember this!" Arthur snapped his fingers. "You used to recite it to me back when we were in college, back when we came here all the time."

"That's right!" Francis cheered.

"That was back before…you know. _Stuff _happened."

"Oh, stuff!" laughed Francis, throwing his head back. Arthur only just noticed then that Francis looked so healthy, with full cheeks and fair, luscious hair that tumbled down to his shoulders. He didn't know why he felt as though something was off about that, though. "What's _stuff_ got to do with anything? All that matters now is _here_."

Arthur nodded, allowing himself a small smile. "Yeah, Francis."

"Do you want to do it?" Francis asked, nodding politely at the river.

"Do what?" Arthur hummed, still in a good mood.

"Jump, silly." Francis lifted only one corner of his lips into a half-smile, showing his teeth.

"We could die. Idiot."

"The point!" Francis took up Arthur's hand and looked excitedly between Arthur's face and the water below them. "Arthur, listen to me. Life is like one long walk down the bridge, only there's no other side of the bridge and it just ends abruptly, leading to a great abyss. You can keep walking and walking, all while suffering the pains of doubt and misery and loneliness, prolonging your existence, denying the fact that the bridge doesn't really _go_ anywhere by deluding yourself with the company of friends and family."

"That's nice," Arthur said, still scowling, now trying to shake Francis off. The Frenchman's grip only tightened.

"We could end it all, you know," said Francis, cajoling. "I mean, why finish the entire length of the bridge? You'll just end up hitting the water old and tired and hopeless. Why not just do it now, when we're still young, and carefree, and without disease?"

"This isn't about your sickness, is it?" Arthur asked, frowning.

"It's just." Francis let go of Arthur's hands and wrung his own helplessly. "I don't want to die fighting HIV or AIDS. I don't want to be _that_ person. 'Oh, he was so brave, fighting AIDS,' they'll say at my funeral, or whatever. Like that was all I really was."

Arthur looked down.

"I don't want to it to be my byproduct. I don't want to fight so hard and survive so long only to die uselessly in the end because I'm just a side effect of a great and terrible abomination that will claim not only my life but hundreds of people more. And even if, miraculously, I'm perfectly cured one day, I still _won't_ be. I might not be dying of AIDS anymore but I'll be dying of death, and I'm just — I'm just so tired. What's the point, you know? We're all dying right now. We've never lived."

Arthur didn't know what to say. He simply leaned against the railings and then leaned a little against Francis. He wanted to tell Francis that he didn't know the answers either, that he didn't know their outcome or why they were here or whether or not people lived more than they died.

"Like, why does it have to be _me_?" Francis frowned. "I mean, I know _why. _But have I loved any less, have I done something so maliciously wrong, have I been deserving of this? What do you think, Arthur? You be my judge; it was you who I cheated on."

Arthur licked his lips. He wasn't going to answer. He didn't know the answer. In the end, he knew that Francis didn't deserve this kind of doomed fate. But how could he say that, when he knew perfectly well that _all_ of them were doomed? Francis was actually no less and no more lucky than the rest of them.

"You know what?" Arthur said, curling his fingers around Francis'. "Let's do it. Let's jump."

"You mean it?" Francis' eyes lit up like lights on a Christmas tree. "You really mean it?"

"I mean it, Francis," Arthur laughed. "God, you're such a child sometimes. Look at you."

So Arthur watched patiently, and even helped out a little, as Francis threw one leg over the side of the railings and then the other. Soon Francis was hanging just over the Seine river, his hands clenched firmly to Arthur's, who was on the safe side of the metal bars. If Arthur let him go now, it would be to his death.

"You and me, remember? Francis said, wetting his lips nervously. "We become _I_."

"I think," Arthur said, "That life is just one huge drama of pain. There are so many of us walking the Earth at any given moment; we all want to be heard, but no one wants to listen. Including the fates. It'd take a lot of luck for anyone to meet their soul mates or have their perfect wedding or perfect birthday or be entirely and undoubtedly happy without a single stressful thought in their minds. You're right, Francis. What's the point."

Arthur was about to let go when he remembered that he was supposed to be jumping too. He waited until Francis got a good grip on the railings before he swung himself over, landing neatly beside the Frenchman. It was scary, how the fate of his life was literally hanging in the balance. Arthur looked around them for other people in case they fell and changed their minds or something, but nobody else was there. It was just Arthur and Francis, hanging perilously off a bridge that had somehow inexplicably turned white, hanging over a river that had somehow inexplicably turned black.

"Do you think this story could have ended any other way?" Arthur said, feeling a little sorry for himself as he looked at his hands. His knuckles were white from clenching the bars. "Maybe our lives are one of those choose-your-own-adventure books and we made the wrong decision somewhere back there."

"Not you," Francis murmured. "Me. You just happen to be affected too because our books cross over at some points more often than not."

"Unfortunate."

"I know, right? It's been nice, though. I daresay that my walk down the bridge would have been a lot less interesting had you not been there beside me."

"I'm flattered."

"As you should be. So, do you have any last words or something?"

"Who cares about last words when you're about to die?" said Arthur. "I didn't worry about my last meal or my last telephone call or my last trip to the general store. Last words are the _last_ things on my mind right now."

"So what _are_ the last things on your mind right now?"

Arthur pondered it. "How much I don't want to die," he said.

"Maybe it's because you're afraid you'll be forgotten because you haven't left your mark on the world or something. That's what most people are afraid of, you know? That and being buried alive. And spiders."

"Yeah," Arthur said softly. "I'm afraid of…_nothing_. You know. Disappearing. Being lost forever. Entering the unknown that comes after our vital organs shut down. Entertaining the empty seats."

"You're afraid of nothing," Francis repeated, slowly.

"I'm afraid of nothing," Arthur said.

"That's an interesting twist. Are you afraid of _being_ nothing, or are you afraid of nothing_ness_, or are you afraid of the _nothings _you've done throughout your life, the _nothings_ that could've just as easily become _somethings_?"

"Yeah," Arthur responds simply. "All of that."

"Everything."

"Everything."

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," said Francis, giving a little peek between his arms to peer at their soon to be ruin. "We can keep on living and fearing _nothing_ and pretending that we don't know _everything _so that _nothing _is a little easier to cope with_._"

"God, you're not making any sense," laughed Arthur, and Francis joined him. Truth be told? Arthur didn't want to think about it anymore. All he knew was that he'd rather have Francis with him than not, and if Francis was going to jump, then he was going to join him. Even if he was afraid, even if he wanted to keep living, even if he didn't know all the answers to all his questions. Even if he and Francis had never meant to be together in the first place. Because damn it, he was an unlucky man who had suffered the curse of foreordained death since his birth, and yet he'd still somehow found his happiness and he wanted to _keep_ it. It was _his_.

And maybe that was it. The answer lied between the spaces of each individual eyelash that lined the edge of Francis' eyelids, could be found between the breadth between Francis' upper and lower set of teeth, could be unraveled within the infinities of Francis' eyes.

And across the globe, the answer looped back again in an endless continuum. Even when Francis and Arthur's bones are turned to dust and not a single conscience in the world will be able remember their existence, there it will subsist, between the sleepless nights of a newly-made mother and the hopeless, dusty determination of a young soldier who's not entirely sure why he's fighting besides for his sweetheart back home. Six hundred years ago the answer appeared when a slave girl tucked a small insect into the folds of her rags and deemed herself its protector; six hundred years later the answer will once again come in a flurry of quiet resolve as man meets with space and mind clashes with God. There was the answer: inordinate, tame, microscopic, distinguished. It came in different shapes and forms but it always came to each and every single person, at least once in their lives.

That was all.

"I'm ready," Arthur said, taking in a deep, shaking breath. "You know, I'm glad you're here. Thank goodness for you, Francis. Thank goodness. Ready."

Francis smiled. He reached out for one o Arthur's hands, but Arthur was already one step ahead of him. Their hands met together in the middle and their fingers twined together. "Ready?"

"Yeah. Francis?"

"Mhm?"

"Thank you."

"For what, Arthur?"

Arthur just shook his head, turning it away so Francis couldn't see his blush. "Set, Francis."

"Set, Arthur. Let go!"

* * *

The next time Arthur woke up, it was to the unblinking faces of Matthew and Alfred.

"I'm in Hell," Arthur whispered to himself. Much to his distaste, neither of the two others even so much as smiled.

"Arthur," Matthew said, sitting next to Arthur in bed — why was Arthur in bed? — and taking one of his hands. "Welcome back."

"What happened?" asked Arthur.

Matthew looked at Alfred slowly, biting on his bottom lip. "I don't know how to say this. Maybe you should get some more rest. We'll come back for you later. Okay, Arthur? Okay?"

"I'm so lost," said Arthur. "Where's Francis?"

Matthew's face fell. Alfred turned pointedly away to look out a window. "Arthur," Matthew said quietly. "Do you really not remember?"

"Remember _what_?" snapped Arthur.

"Francis is dead," Matthew said, his voice catching on the last word. "He committed suicide three days ago. You collapsed two days ago."

Arthur blinked. No, that didn't make any sense. He and Francis had _both_ jumped. He saw Francis hit the water right before he did. He felt himself not bothering to kick up for air as he curled up with Francis and they sunk to the bottom. He felt nakedness, he felt oblivion. "What?" he croaked.

"Arthur, please," Matthew said, tightening his hold on the Brit. "Don't you remember anything?"

"I remember jumping with him," said Arthur. He felt absolutely numb on the inside. He couldn't comprehend the words Matthew was telling him, they weren't going through, they weren't computing properly. All Arthur could hear was _Francis is dead Francis is dead oh God Francis is dead_ but all he could do was sit there emptily.

"Arthur, you've been sleeping for the past two days. You told us — right before you knew — Francis committed suicide on the Mirabeau bridge, no one else was there with him, and you fucking _lost_ it. And we thought it was so bad, we took you to the hospital, and then they brought you back, and you haven't woken up, and oh, God, Arthur —"

Matthew was pressing his fingers to Arthur's sticky cheek. Arthur lifted his own hand to reciprocate, touching Matthew's face. The Canadian had started to cry. He's lost a brother, Arthur thought blearily. He's lost a brother and I've lost…

So he broke down. He droped his hand from Matthew's face and sat there in the bed with his stupid covers draped neatly over him like that even mattered, thinking about the dream he had thought was reality. Because Francis had tried to commit suicide for the second time and Arthur hadn't stopped it and this time Francis had succeeded.

He's making horrible sounds, bestial and inhuman, as he threw his eyes to the ceiling and wailed his heart out. He beat his fists against the bed and Matthew ducked, letting loose a cry as he triec to avoid being hit by Arthur's fists. And Arthur just cried and cried, on and on, screams and shudders and gasps and bucks in the bed as the realization dawned completely and utterly upon him. The entire time, his eyes remained open, shocked from the revelation. Francis was dead.

Francis was dead.

_You and me. No more I_.

In that moment, Arthur could swear that he could've put a gun right to his face and killed himself and he wouldn't have been able to care more. The grief was so bad he just wanted to _end_ it all. He couldn't understand the pain that was swallowing up his insides, tearing out the pumping organ in his chest struggling futilely to keep a man who didn't want to be alive, alive. He thought that maybe Alfred had joined in trying to keep Arthur still, because Matthew was too busy himself to attempt such a thing. Matthew was also wailing, kneeling by the side of Arthur's bed.

"It's okay, Arthur," Alfred was saying. "It's mine and Matthew's responsibility to make sure you're okay from now on. We're never letting another suicide happen again. We swear it. You're with us now, Arthur. It's okay."

_You're with us now, Arthur. Francis had suffered the curse of dying, and now Alfred and Matthew are going to curse Arthur to live. _

"We'll make sure you won't die, Arthur. We promise."

Matthew nodded furiously, his hands covering his ears. He choked through shuddering breaths, "Forever."

In that instant, Arthur asked a question. Two moments before, holding Francis' hand on that bridge, he'd thought that he had the answer. But perhaps he'd been asking the wrong things this entire time.

"_Why_?" he choked, while Matthew shook his head.


	16. Epilogue

**Title: **The Genius Next Door

**Number of chapters: **15 + epilogue

**Word count:** 70k + total, 1595 for this part

**Cover image by:** Eric Rougier

**Summary:** Serve God, love me and mend. This is not the end. - Mumford and Sons

**Warnings:** Please click on my profile for a full list of warnings if you need them.

Other notes: I'm going to update this every Monday and Friday from here on out. In other words, the last chapter of this story + the epilogue will both be posted on the 29th of July 2013. Thank you everyone for your support!

* * *

Why?

Beloved reader, that is, indeed, the question.

When I set out to write this story, that was the only word I had in mind. Why? After every chapter I finished, I asked myself it again. Unfortunately, I didn't know the answer. I don't think I ever will.

You see, none of the events that have happened in this novel are particularly true. I mean, except for a _few_ things. When I was very young, my family and I went to visit Marseille, and there was this blue-eyed boy who was staying in the hotel room next to us. He was about the same age as me. For the six-day vacation that I was there, we only interacted once, even though we ended up seeing each other in a lot of the places we went to.

The one time we talked was the last day we were staying in Marseille. We were at the beach, and he was building some sort of castle. I went to speak with him. "Hello," I'd said. "My name's —"

"Don't tell me it," he'd interrupted. "I don't want to know."

I was a little taken aback, but that was the only time the boy ever snapped at me from then on. We became incredibly close in the short three-hour period that we spent together. And for some reason, I felt myself inexplicably attached to this boy whose name I didn't know.

It's because the boy _smiled_ a lot. He always looked as if he was happy — and for all I know, he could have been perpetually happy. I don't know why. He smiled like he had some great big secret that he couldn't let the world in on. He smiled when I tossed sand in his hair, smiled when I tracked water all over his castle, smiled when he was stung by a jellyfish. It wasn't the creepy kind of smile, either. I mean, he cried out in pain when he was stung, sure, but after that, he just laughed it off.

Keep in mind we were both _children_.

Since I never got to learn the boy's name, I started calling him the Genius Next Door in my mind, because this was the boy who had the answers to _everything_. Maybe he didn't know how to solve advanced physics problems or know how to build a sandcastle strong enough to withstand a bit of water, but he was _happy_. And yeah, I mean, he was a kid, and kids are usually happy, but this boy was something else. So he became the Genius Next Door.

I thought about him a lot as the years went on. When I got into high school, I realized I might've been a little gay or something. But not for any of the male students I knew. For the blue-eyed boy of Marseille's shores. He became my inspiration as I pursued the things I loved, like performance art and music and literature. Whenever I took a test, I prayed that TGND would help me through it. When my mother killed herself, I prayed that TGND would help me through the particularly difficult time. When I got into alcohol and drugs, TGND was the one I hallucinated lying alone in my room with all the windows shut. He was a grown man by then. I was in love with a fantasy.

It wasn't until I was 15 that my Japanese friend Kiku told me about the red string of fate and introduced me to the concept of _soul mates_. He said that everyone would find theirs one day. I asked, what if they're siblings? What if one's super old and one's super young? What if they're both males or both females?

Kiku said none of that mattered, because soul mates meant _soul mates _and that your soul mate is literally perfect for you. If he's fifty and you're twenty-five and he's your soul mate it didn't _matter_ that he was twice your age, he was still _yours_.

Then I asked, can we each only get one? Kiku answered yes. I asked, so, what if they haven't been born yet, or was already born a hundred years ago?

He was stumped. "I don't think that happens," he'd responded. "Soul mates mean perfection. They're perfect for you. They can't be perfect for you if they're already dead."

But it was after getting rejected by my dream college and then getting my heart broken over a few guys and then watching my dad die, too, that I realized that nothing was _perfect_ in the world. The soul mate concept literally could not exist. Half my friends were in relationships, and half of those relationships were already at the marriage-level, and yet these friends fought with their so-called 'destined lovers' all the time, and over the silliest things. Where to put the plates. Who's picking up Matthew from school. You forgot to turn on the AC and now it's suffocatingly hot, thanks a lot you good-for-nothing jackass.

Sometimes there were fights over larger issues, too. Like why did you cheat on me? Like what do we do now that you have a disease that will one day kill you?

And yet I still saw that some couples actually worked _well_ with each other — just not on their bad days sometimes. Even with issues like cancer and cheating in their minds.

So I questioned this. Why? I asked. So we all have a soul mate, but none of us are ever going to meet them because the circumstances we were born in just so happened that maybe we're not rich enough to travel the world in search of them or maybe we're not born in the same century?

And then I realized that I could have possibly already found mine. TGND.

Of course, we'd only played together for three hours. But those were the happiest three hours of my life, and I'd felt something — a connection of sorts, I don't know. _Something_ was there. Something larger-than-life.

And that was when I came across the revelation that I was _never_ going to meet TGND again. Because I'd never learned his name. Because the last time we'd spoken was over two decades ago. Because there were seven billion people in the world and the chances of finding your soul mate, if he even so happened to live in the twenty-first century, was one-in-seven-billion and that wasn't enough.

So I, being the young novelist that I was, decided to do the only thing I could. I wrote a story.

I gave TGND a name and a grown-up figure. I painstakingly hand-crafted a new world in which Arthur and Francis _do _find each other and _do_ get a happy ending. I thought about writing a whole series. In the sequel, Francis is actually a ladybug and Arthur works for pest control, but they end up happily together anyway. In the sequel after that, Francis is the boy soldier in World War II and Arthur is a female commander. They end up happily together in that one as well. And I'd always write these stories from Francis' point of view, because that way I'd get to know him intrinsically. I liked that idea.

But then I realized that the story was, undoubtedly, unrealistic.

Ladybugs and workers-for-pest-control do not fall in love. Fifteen year old army boys and thirty year old commanders who are too busy for a romantic interest can't have a proper ending together. In short, soul mates do not find each other.

But we can still _create them ourselves_.

So I rewrote the story. To pay for the one-in-seven-billion chance of meeting your soul mate, I gave Francis a deadly disease that becomes incurable. (Truthfully, only one in every hundred have HIV. But that's not important here). I made it so that Francis and Arthur were never _meant_ to find each other in the first place because their soul mates are somewhere else, probably dead or a fetus or something. But they _became_ and _molded_ themselves into soul mates because of each other and the work they put into their relationships.

And then Francis, of course, had to die.

Why?

That, my dear reader, is a good question.

Because as I'm writing this right now, I still haven't yet met my Genius Next Door. And I don't think I'll wait around for him any longer. So to let go of the fantastical image I've created of him in my head, he has to die and Arthur can't follow him, so I can move on. It's time to give another person a chance, you know? Maybe we'll actually fall in love, or something. Buy a house together, adopt a couple cute kids. Maybe I'll love this new person so much that I'll forget Francis' name unless I open this book and read it.

But you know what? That's okay. We've become I. It's difficult to forget your first love (and nor do you have to), but not impossible to forgive his memory. My answer comes in the form of these words, through TGND's sufferings, through TGND's faults, through TGND's trials.

This, my friends, is not a sad ending, because I _choose_ to walk away from it hopeful and happy. After all, you don't spend your entire life imagining TGND being there with you without learning _something_ from him.

There's the answer again — right there!

Why?

You tell me.

_Yours truly,_

_Arthur Kirkland._


End file.
